


Breathing Through Corrupted Lungs

by bbjkrss



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Asexual John, Depression, Grey-A Sherlock, M/M, Omega John, Omega Verse, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-03-19 12:18:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3609846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbjkrss/pseuds/bbjkrss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where regular sexual contact is a requirement for Alphas and Omegas to stay healthy, John Watson, an asexual Omega, is put into somewhat of a bind. Placed into therapy against his will, he fights to maintain control over his body as his doctors attempt to force him to conform and reverse his declining health.</p><p>One day he meets Sherlock Holmes, an asexual Alpha who shares his disdain for the system but also seems to care rather more about getting well. Can he convince John that it's just as important to fight for his life as for his pride?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my omegaverse fic that I've been talking about since October. It was based on a (rather surreal) dream that I had and my curiosity about how asexuality would be translated into omegaverse. I've been doing a lot of world building for this in the last few months and I'm rather pleased with how it's coming along, so I hope it turns out to be interesting for you all. :)
> 
> As always, feel free to ask questions, and I hope you enjoy.

            “John.”

            An attack is coming. He can feel it. He can feel his breaths growing heavier, slower, can feel the weight settling on top of his ribcage, can hear as his exhales morph into pants. It’s getting harder to keep his eyes open. He knows he should feel alarmed.

            He doesn’t.

            “Use the trumpet, John. Please.”

            He won’t. She can’t make him; it’s his choice, and he won’t do it. Maybe he’ll die this time, from the stress of it all. What a relief that would be. The thought makes the muscles of his left hand clench tight, but he doesn’t waver. For all he knows, it’ll be comfortable, dying. He can do this.

            “What would your sister think, John? What about your parents?”

            John screws his eyes shut. He knows what they think about him. That he’s a failure. That this slow degeneration of his body is his fault. That he’s a terrible omega. He agrees with them. There’s nothing more to gain from talking to them now.

            That doesn’t mean that it doesn’t still hurt.

            “John, breathe. You’re still with me, aren’t you? Just breathe.”

            “I ca—” He swallows, coughs, tries again, except no air’s getting through into his lungs; they’re too weak to pull in oxygen anymore. “I ca—can’t… please, E… I…” He’s lightheaded now, straining to breathe, turning to clutch at Ella’s arm like a child to his mother, pleading—

            _I don’t want to die._

            “I need oxygen in here, now!”

            _God damn it._

 

* * *

 

 

            The view from his room is a beautiful one: trees and gardens with flowering shrubs (all hypoallergenic, of course—it wouldn’t do for the patients to get irritated and go into spasms), fountains and ponds and, between the thick trunks and leaves, even glimpses at farmland beyond.

            John hates it.

            He reaches, one handed, for the cord that hangs by his bed and tugs, lowering the blinds with a loud SNAP. The sound is obscenely loud in the otherwise quiet room, and John finds he likes it so much he wants to hear it again.

            SNAP. SNAP. SNAP.

            “John?”

            He lets the cord drop and rolls over onto his side, facing away from the door.

            “John, I’m coming in.” The doorknob turns and Ella enters, but John doesn’t bother to even grunt a hello. He doesn’t want to see her.

            “You oughtn’t close the blinds,” Ella scolds him gently. “The view will do you good.”

            John’s only response is to press the trumpet even more tightly against his face. Thankfully, Ella makes no move to undo his work with the blinds, but she does come over to sit at the foot of his bed. This time John does grunt; it’s a hoarse, pathetic thing, however, and his cheeks burn in humiliation as Ella _tsks_ in pity.

            “You can’t keep on like this,” she tells him in a voice that’s probably meant to be soothing. “Of course we’ll keep on taking care of you for as long as you need, but it’s taking a toll on your body, going through episodes like this so often. Why don’t you let us help you, John? We could send you back home, to London, to your family.”

            Anger suddenly wells up in John’s chest and he rips the trumpet from his mouth and nose, rolling over to glare at Ella’s infuriatingly calm face.

            “I’m not going back to them,” he wheezes, “and I will _not_ — _bond—_ with some random alpha you’ve picked out for me just because you think it’ll _help._ ”

            “It would,” Ella replies, “but I’ve told you before that you don’t have to bond with one if you don’t want to. You’d only need to—”

            “Fuck one, yeah, I got that,” John spits. He’s getting a bit lightheaded again, but he doesn’t bring the medicine back up to his face. Ella’s looking right at him and he refuses to use it in front of her any more than he absolutely needs to.

            “John, your hormones need to be neutralised. There’s only so much we can do artificially—”

            “Artificially,” John huffs. “ _Artificially._ The pills are _artificial._ You fucking performed _major surgery_ on me without my consent!”

            “To save your life,” Ella replies, as if that makes any difference at all. “You were so far gone that your next heat would have killed you. We needed to act.”

            “You should have let me die!” The words are more air than voice now, and John’s hand spasms around the trumpet lying at his side. Ella’s lips press into a thin line.

            “You have to calm down, John. Getting upset only makes it worse. Now, please, take the medicine. You don’t want to have to go back on the ventilator, do you?”

            Humiliated tears prick at the corners of John’s eyes but he lifts the damned instrument back up to his mouth, inhaling greedily. Blessed, blessed oxygen flows into his lungs and he just revels in it for a moment, in the miracle of breathing, eyes closed as the bitter tang of medicine settles in to cling at the back of his throat.

            He feels like an old man, like a broken thing: dying but not allowed to die.

_What’s the point?_

            “John,” Ella continues, and Jesus Christ, why can’t she just leave him _be?_ “you have to understand, the measures that we’re using to control your hormones won’t work forever. They’re temporary at best, you know that. Most patients who come through here only stay for a month or two, three at most. You’ve been here for six.”

            “Kick me out, then,” John challenges her, speaking through the plastic. “I won’t sue if I get worse. Hell, I’ll write it in my will that my family shouldn’t on my behalf, either.”

            Ella’s eyes turn sad in the first display of emotion she’s shown since she’s come into the room. “That isn’t the point. Your case is serious, but given time and proper contact with an alpha, I’m confident that you could make a full recovery. You wouldn’t need medication anymore, or the implants. You could work as a doctor again, re-join the military if you chose.”

            God, but she knows how to hit him where it hurts. John closes his eyes again, allows himself precisely one second to mourn the life that he’s choosing to leave behind, then opens his eyes once more and glares at Ella with all the force he can muster.

            “I,” he says, enunciating as best he can with the trumpet still covering his face, “am not going to have sex with any alphas. I am not going to accept any more treatment, regardless of whether it’s _to save my life_ or not. All I want is to be left alone, in peace, to die. D’you think you all can manage that for me?”

            Ella’s silent for a moment.

            “I’m sorry, John,” she says at last, pushing back her chair. “I don’t think we can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know my use of "trumpet" here might have been a bit strange. I kept that term because of the imagery from my dream. Imagine it as a cross between an oxygen mask and an inhaler- something portable that helps someone breathe, but needs to be placed over the mouth and nose to do so.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! I was blown away by the amount of interest I got on the first chapter of this, and I'm so grateful for all of the comments and kudos. I'm sorry I couldn't have gotten this out any earlier- I wanted to post it Saturday or Sunday, but the final conversation was being a butt and needed to be rewritten at least three or four times. I hope you enjoy the finished product, though. :)

            John is introduced to Sherlock Holmes the following day.

            It’s the scent that gives it away at first, the sharp, strong smell of alpha that wafts down the corridor and into his room, sending a sharp spike of fear through his veins that he tries fiercely, if ineffectually, to tamp down. He’s heard about this type of therapy before—bringing in an alpha close to rut to try and convince “reluctant” omegas that sex is actually a wonderful thing after all—but he hadn’t thought he’d actually _experience_ it.

            Well, he won’t let them do it. John straightens up against his pillows as best he can and tightens his muscles in preparation to fight. He’ll only have the one shot; his air won’t last long under stress, and once his lungs give out, he’ll be at their mercy. Luckily, he knows where to strike.

            “…and this will be your room, Mr Holmes.” Ella’s voice drifts into his room, confident and commanding as always, but no one crosses over the threshold. John waits, counting down silently in his head, but there’s no sound of protest, nothing to suggest that this Mr Holmes is being manhandled in against his will. There’s… no sound of anything at all, actually.

            After about thirty seconds, John’s curiosity gets the better of him and he gingerly grabs the handrail at the side of his bed, ready to lie back down at a moment’s notice. When still nobody enters, he shuffles forward to take his cane from its spot against the wall and makes his way laboriously across the room to peer out of his door.

            There’s no one in the hall.

            John frowns. He hasn’t started hearing things, has he? He doesn’t much fancy having hallucinations in his last few weeks, but if that means he won’t be going through sex therapy… he supposes he can tolerate it.

            “Thank you, Mr Holmes. I’ll be back later to take you to lunch.”

            Ella. John’s not usually agile, not anymore, but he manages to dart back behind his door and out of sight just as he hears the sound of her shoes passing, muffled on the carpeted floor of the hallway. Thankfully, she does not enter his room, and her footsteps fade away within moments.

            John waits before moving, counting the seconds carefully in his head. When he reaches sixty, he peeks out from behind his door again and, finding no one, he enters the corridor and goes to look in the doorway of the next room over.

            What he sees makes his mouth go dry.

            The alpha inside is tall and striking in a crisp, dark suit that clearly sets off the lines of his lithe, slender body. He’s turned away from John, currently, putting several folded shirts away into one of the drawers of his dresser, but his curls look lovely and soft, and fleetingly John wonders about how they would feel before he catches himself and tightens his fingers around his cane. Nope, he can’t think that way. That’s what they want, for him to get all soppy-eyed about some pretty alpha they’ve brought in and present himself to be fucked at the earliest opportunity. Except… he pauses, and sniffs at the air again. His scent, it’s not normal, it’s…

            “Drug addict,” the alpha says, suddenly, in a voice that sends an involuntary shiver down John’s spine. “Going on ten years, now. Suppresses the mating instinct wonderfully.” He turns around, then, a faux smile on his face, but it falters slightly once he catches sight of John. His eyes sweep John’s body from head to toe, and within another second it’s faded entirely. “ _You_ haven’t found a similar solution, clearly.”

            John fights back the flicker of ire that rises at the comment and forces his own polite smile.

            “Army, actually,” he says, “but they have this annoying policy to stop handing out suppressants once you leave. You know how it is.”

            The alpha quirks an eyebrow. “And is it also army policy to look the other way when one of its doctors decides to stop taking his suppressants to forge a clandestine bond?”

            The words are like a physical blow and John’s hand clenches fiercely around his cane as he reels backwards. “That’s not—” He cuts himself off, grits his teeth. “How the hell did you know that?”

            The alpha smiles mysteriously and returns to his unpacking without a reply. John opens his mouth, about to demand an answer, but Ella chooses that moment to interrupt. “Mr Holmes—oh, John.” She pauses on the threshold to the room. “Did you need something?”

            “Don’t bother.” John glances warily between her and the alpha, suddenly very uncomfortable at being sandwiched in-between them. “I was just leaving.”

            “All right. Remember, lunch is in an hour.” As if he doesn’t know that already. John scowls in reply and brushes past her before she’s finished moving out of the way. Damn Ella. Damn her and her new pet alpha. Even if he turns out to be a patient and not a plant, John doesn’t care. He’ll be watching. They’re not going to guilt him into sex with anyone.

            Let them try.

 

* * *

 

 

            “You’re suicidal.”

            John glances up from his food to see the alpha from before looming over him. His first instinct is to tell him to fuck off, especially after that display from earlier, but the energy he’d need to do so is too difficult to muster at the moment, so he settles for a slow blink and lays his head back down on the table. Rude can sometimes do the trick, if the alpha’s sensitive enough. “How’d you figure that one out?”

            Holmes, however, must _not_ be so sensitive, as he takes the question as an invitation to sit and places his tray down on the table beside John’s, sliding into the chair opposite as graceful as a deer. John growls low in his throat at the invasion of his personal space, but Holmes doesn’t seem to notice.

            “You’re suffering from chronic respiratory distress,” he says as if John’s an idiot. “Omegas’ health doesn’t decline that far unless they’ve been abstaining from sexual activity for years—otherwise the suppressants they’re feeding you would be having more of an effect.” He pauses and tilts his head, studying John carefully. “Or _are_ you taking your suppressants?”

            John shrugs. There’s no point lying, not in here. “The pills? No. The hormone capsules they decided to implant in me without asking if it was all right? Bit late to refuse those.”

            Holmes’ face goes a bit pale, but it doesn’t impact his voice as he speaks again. “You do realise that if you’d taken the medication as requested—”

            “It wouldn’t have made a damn bit of difference,” John interrupts. “They’d have had to do it eventually. It’s been years, like you said.” He shoves his tray away and settles his head more comfortably on top of his arms. “But anyway, go on. What else tipped you off?”

            Holmes doesn’t reply right away. “You mean you actually want to know?”

            John shrugs again. “Why not? There’s not much else to do in here.”

            Holmes huffs quietly through his nose at that, then holds out a hand into John’s field of vision. “I’m Sherlock.”

            John doesn’t take it, though he at least moves his head so that their eyes can meet. “John. Though I suppose you heard my name already.”

            “The doctor’s not particularly happy with you,” Sherlock says by way of reply. He seems to realise that his hand won’t be shaken and picks up his fork once more to resume poking at his meal. “She was surprised to see you out of bed.”

            “Yeah, well…” John resists the urge to shrug for a third time and restricts himself to a sigh. “There’s not much to get out of bed for, is there?”

            “And now you’ve confirmed it,” Sherlock murmurs. He lays down his fork and braces his elbows on the table, silver eyes suddenly focussed on John. “It’s easy enough to see after one glance at you, but what I can’t figure out is why.”

            John raises his eyebrows, incredulous. “You actually need to think about it?”

            Sherlock frowns at him.

            “Look,” John says. “Why are we all here?” He gestures around the cafeteria at the other patients, huddled into their separate, protective groups of alpha and omega. “Because all of us, for one reason or another, haven’t been fucking anybody, and we’re not allowed to leave until we do. That thought’s just a little bit depressing, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

            Sherlock’s expression doesn’t clear. “So? Sleep with someone, then. Make them happy, and they’ll let you go.”

            John stares at him, disgusted. “Oh, and I suppose you’ll be offering yourself up to do the job, is that it?”

            “Hardly.” Sherlock tilts his head, eyes narrow as if he’s just thought of something. “If you’re worrying about me propositioning you, don’t. I’m not interested, in you or in anyone else. I wouldn’t have been sent here otherwise.”

            He has a point, but John knows better than to take that at face value. He doesn’t want to be the first one who falls for the ploy, if there turns out to be one. Still, he’ll play along for now. “Ta, good to know. Not gonna make Ella happy to hear that, though.”

            “No, I suppose not.” Sherlock’s face turns a bit introspective at that, and their conversation, such as it is, lapses into silence.

            Part of John wants to go back to his room, now; the food doesn’t hold any appeal for him, and Sherlock doesn’t seem particularly interested in talking. Yet for some reason he’s reluctant to leave. His own room is quiet and depressing, and at least now he’s found someone to talk to, alpha though it may be.

            “That thing you do,” he remarks suddenly. Life returns to Sherlock’s eyes and he glances up at John, eyes wary. “How did you know, before? That I’d been bonded?”

            “I didn’t know, I saw.” Sherlock sounds as if the very last thing he wants to do right now is talk about this, but he drags his eyes once more over John’s form in a slow, meandering way that John tries very hard not to think of as sexual.

            “The sort of decline you’re experiencing doesn’t happen in six months,” Sherlock says quietly. “It takes years to reach the end stage of organ failure. Even taking your current situation into account, your depression would have only taken you so far. Something must have happened, recently, to shock your system. Bond breaking makes the most sense.”

            “But I’d told you that I’d been in the army,” John points out. “Suppressants are standard there, everybody knows that. Why did you think I’d gone and bonded anyway?”

            Sherlock shrugs. “Sentiment. Human error. Anyway, I confirmed it when I got a look at your neck as you were leaving.”

            Bastard. John opens his mouth to call him on it (you just don’t _look_ for those sorts of things on people you’ve only just met!), but he pauses. Sherlock’s pallor hasn’t yet gone away, and he’s fidgeting anxiously with the side of his plastic tray, shifting the entire thing in miniscule increments as if trying to line it up precisely with the edge of the table. John’s still angry, mind, but a steadily growing part of him is becoming more preoccupied with Sherlock’s mental state. What’s happened in the last five minutes to agitate him like this?

            Before he can ask, however, the post-lunch bell rings and like a swarm of hawks descending upon their prey, the cafeteria fills with nurses calling out names from clipboards and ushering patients down hallways to their various appointments and doctors.

            “Watson!”

            John looks up to see Henry, one of the younger orderlies, waving him over. Damn it. He spares a moment for a deep, protracted sigh (he’d been hoping to be called during one of the later rounds today), then grabs his cane and proceeds to haul himself to his feet. Sherlock looks up at him, eyes dark, as if he’s about to say something, but then a female nurse calls out his name and his head spins around to look at her, the tension in his shoulders increasing threefold.

            John allows himself to be led away by Henry down the old familiar hallway to Ella’s office, but his attention remains on the receding form of Sherlock, huddled quietly on the bench, until they turn a corner and he is finally swept out of sight.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everybody, for all of the lovely comments and questions. I love getting them, and some of them have even sparked some brainstorming for world building and later chapters, so keep telling me what you think! It's a fun premise to work with and I like seeing people's responses to it. :) I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations- Sherlock was lots of fun to write. :)
> 
> (also, I'm not quite sure why it keeps putting the end notes from chapter one at the bottom of every subsequent chapter. does anyone know how to turn that off? it's a bit distracting.)

            “Good afternoon, John. How are you feeling today?”

            John shrugs wordlessly in response. There’s no clock in the room—he’s thoroughly searched for one throughout his many sessions with Ella—so he turns to gaze rudely out the window instead. At least the weather’s nice this afternoon; once he’d spent an entire session watching the rain lash down in sheets, and hadn’t been able to tell by the end of the hour if it had been the weather or Ella that had been more depressing.

            “I see you’re not carrying around the trumpet,” Ella remarks, trying to get a rise out of him. “You aren’t worried about having an attack?”

            “Not really.” Noncommittal response. It shouldn’t help her any, so John glances back at her in surprise when he hears her writing. What’s he said that’s so interesting?

            “That’s good.” Ella puts down her pencil and then looks at him with the smile John’s learned to hate. She’s plotting. Planning. “I see you’ve met Sherlock.”

            So that’s what it is. John leans back a bit in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest in a bid for nonchalance. “Bit hard not to. He’s rooming next to me, looks like.”

            “Yes, he is.” Ella leans forward. “How are we feeling about that?”

            John scowls at her. “How do you think I’m feeling? I don’t want him near me. He’s an alpha.”

            Ella makes a note. “Alphas and omegas alternate rooms throughout the facility, John. You know that.”

            “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

            “No, of course not,” Ella placates him. “But why does it bother you so much? Being near an alpha?”

            “You know damn well why,” John snaps, but immediately he regrets it. Damn it, she’s gotten to him again, and he doesn’t even have his meds on hand this time in case something goes wrong. Briefly, he wonders what will happen if he goes into another fit, but then dismisses the concern. They’ve got oxygen on hand everywhere here. They won’t let him die.

            _More’s the pity._

            “Do you really think it would be so unpleasant?” Ella prods. “Maybe you’re going about this the wrong way. It wouldn’t be uncomfortable or painful to take an alpha to bed, John, you know that; your body’s made for it. And during heat it would be tremendously relieving for all of your symptoms.” She pauses. “Do you remember what happened the last time?”

            Does he remember. John snorts; of course he remembers. They’d given him the implants after the last one, after the pain in his guts had made breathing seem like a remote possibility and pleasure, let alone relief, an unattainable dream. It’s a sensation he never wants to feel again; how any omega can crave it, or even look forward to it with anything less than dread, escapes him.

            “It’s not like that all the time,” Ella says quietly, as if she can read what he’s thinking. “For an omega who has been taking care of themselves properly, a heat can be an immensely fulfilling and pleasurable experience, more so if they enjoy it with a consistent mate.”

            John bristles. He can just see that going over well; him, an injured, decrepit omega asking an alpha to mate with him. Only the ones in programs like his own would even consider saying yes, and then only to get the doctors off of their backs.

            _Great relationship, that. Pity fucking taken to a whole ‘nother level._

            Ella watches him silently for a long moment, then tilts her head to the side. “Why do you find sex so distasteful, John?”

            The question hangs, heavy, in the air. John glares at her and doesn’t reply.

            Does she really not understand? Sex is _disgusting_ , a mass of squirming, sweaty bodies expelling an array of fluids in a variety of textures and consistencies that all need to be contained and cleaned up and kept as far away from John as possible. People are selfish and demanding and idiotic when it comes to sex; alphas will posture over omegas they don’t even know while they’re in rut, obsessed with nothing else but _getting off._ It’s shameful, and it’s demeaning, and John wants no part of it. He doesn’t want to be reduced to just his sexual drive. If he could, he’d rip out his ovaries this very second and be done with it all, but the clinic would never go for that. Not when they can _fix_ him.

            “It’s a natural process,” Ella goes on, talking over John’s silence. “Nothing to be ashamed or afraid of.”

            “I’m not afraid,” John corrects her immediately, but his voice comes out distracted. _Is_ he? Is that what this is? He doesn’t think so—he doesn’t quiver in fear upon contemplating an alpha’s cock. He _does_ , however, find himself overcome with the urge to vomit. Probably not the best thing to mention to Ella.

            “We could spend several sessions on why I believe that’s not true,” Ella tells him, “but that’s not what I wanted to discuss today.” She pauses, and the seriousness of her tone makes something cold lodge itself in John’s throat. “Your family contacted me this morning.”

            “What—” John’s voice catches and he has to stop, clear his throat, try again. “What did they have to say?”

            Ella presses her lips together and looks down at her clipboard, then back up at him.

            “They’re… unhappy with your progress,” she says at last. _Your lack of one_ is heavily implied, but John ignores the jab. “Therefore, they’ve asked me if I would consider applying… stricter measures to our therapy regimen for you.”

            No. She can’t mean—John’s hands clench on the arms of his chair. _Sex therapy. Stimulus training._ They can’t. He’ll die. He’ll _try_ to die, he—

            “John.” Ella’s voice is soothing, if firm, and John realises belatedly that he’s wheezing. “Relax. You’re all right. Take deep breaths, now.”

            John obeys her reluctantly, forcing himself to breathe to the count of five, in through his nose and out through his mouth. The constriction fades after a minute or so and he slumps in his chair, suddenly exhausted.

            “I know the idea distresses you,” Ella says quietly, “but our mission here is to cure you, John, and have you be able to walk out of here with a healthy attitude towards sex and your own well-being. We’re not going to let you die; you’re worth more than that.”

            John shakes his head. No, he’s not. He’s broken, an omega born without an instinct for self-preservation, one that’s willing to die rather than engage in the most treasured of human experiences. Perhaps that had been useful for the army, but now he’s just an oddity, a disgrace, a medical condition just like the rest of the alphas and omegas locked up in here with him. They ought to just shoot him now.

            He should have shot himself while he still had the chance.

            “Nothing’s going to change today,” Ella reassures him (tries to reassure him). “I’m going to discuss it with your other doctors, and then we’ll make a new treatment plan that we’ll present to your family for approval.” Not John’s. Never John’s. “I expect we’ll be able to put it in place by next week. Timing is very important for you right now, John. We’ve managed to delay your next heat a bit with the implants, but you’ve only got two months at the outside before it comes back. I’d like to see you in a much better place, mentally, before that happens.” She pauses to let that sink in. “Are we clear?”

            It’s obvious that she expects him to agree so John does, quietly and without paying much attention to the words he uses, if indeed he uses any at all. The rest of the session passes by in a blur after that, and when Ella wishes him a good afternoon at the end of it, John walks by her and out the door without making a sound.

 

* * *

 

            Sleep does not come easily to John that night.

            He’s used to tossing and turning for ages, flipping his pillow over multiple times when it gets too hot, and occasionally waking up with a shout or a wheeze and having to spend half an hour with the trumpet pressed to his face before he can calm down enough to go back to sleep, but somehow tonight is worse. He spends at least an hour and a half on his back after lights-out staring at the ceiling, Ella’s words playing over and over again in his mind.

            They’re going to put him in sex therapy. Strap him to a chair and force him to watch disgusting films, drug him to the gills and put him in a room with an in-rut alpha, make his therapy sessions twice as long and spend the entire time drilling him and persuading him until he finally admits that he’s in the wrong and yes, wouldn’t he just love to share his heat with a fucking _stranger_. They’ll do their best to convince him that he’s _broken,_ and his family is going to sign off on it because they agree.

            He needs to find a way to get out of here before that happens.

            He doesn’t know how much longer he spends brooding, but it’s probably some time after one in the morning when he hears a low murmuring coming from next door.

            Sherlock’s room.

            John listens, curious, for a moment—who can Sherlock possibly be talking to at this hour?—but when he can’t make anything intelligible out through the wall, he shrugs and settles back down to gaze out the window at the cloudy night sky. It’s probably nothing.

            He’s barely begun to return to his thoughts, however, when he suddenly hears a loud _thud_ and Sherlock’s voice rises in what sounds like anger. John sits up this time, muscles tingling with adrenaline. What the hell is he doing? Silently, he slips from his bed and goes to the door, turning the knob as quietly as he can before creeping out into the hall.

            There are no nurses walking about, for which he is exceedingly grateful (they’re not _forbidden_ from leaving their rooms at night, per se, but he doesn’t need their questions about what he’s doing seeking out a strange alpha), and quickly he opens the door to Sherlock’s room before he can think about what he’s doing.

            Sherlock sets upon him as soon as he enters.

            “The _nerve_ of them, John, can you believe it?”

            John, not having any idea of what he’s talking about, freezes halfway through shutting the door behind him. “Sorry? What are you on about?”

            Sherlock fixes him with the most exasperated look John has ever seen on a person before. “The _doctors_ , John, who did you think I meant? No, don’t bother. And shut the door while you’re at it, I don’t need them listening in.”

            Arse. John manages to restrain himself enough to close the door with a tiny click rather than a spiteful slam, and then looks back at Sherlock, crossing his arms over his chest. “Now, what about the doctors? I couldn’t hear what you were saying through the wall.”

            Sherlock looks at him oddly for a moment, then resumes his frenetic pacing. “When you were admitted, what sort of questions did your doctor ask you? Ridiculous, invasive nonsense? The one they’ve set me with is _completely_ incompetent, no sense of timing or tact to speak of.”

            John huffs through his nose. Make that an oblivious arse, then. “Doesn’t surprise me. What exactly did he ask you?”

            Sherlock halts again, face screwing up in what could either be embarrassment or anger. Probably both. John waits.

            “He asked me,” Sherlock begins at last, each word separated and pronounced very clearly, “how many times I _take care of myself_ per week.” His cheek twitches, and John finds himself grimacing in sympathy.

            “What did you tell him?”

            “That my libido is practically non-existent, of course.”

            John winces. “Probably not the best idea, that.”

            “As I soon realised,” Sherlock snaps at him. “The enforced prescription of—” his face flushes—“ _sexual stimulators_ made that rather obvious.”

            The polite side of John knows he ought to empathise; curse the doctors along with Sherlock and rage against all of their horrible decisions. But it’s late, he’s tired, and Sherlock’s offhand comment from lunch resurfaces in his mind and makes the petty need to shove it in his face override any concept of manners he might possibly have left at this hour of the morning.

            “What happened to _just sleep with someone?_ ” he demands. “You seemed rather keen on just getting it out of the way, earlier.”

            Sherlock growls. “I meant under my own volition, in my own time. I’d have done it just as soon as I’d found an omega that wasn’t mind-numbingly tedious or likely to cling afterwards. But they’re going to pump me full of drugs before I’ve even had a chance to _think_.” He twists both hands in his hair and pulls, scratching fiercely at his scalp. “You were a doctor—can’t I claim that taking more drugs this soon after rehab could ruin my progress?” His voice sounds manic, desperate, and despite himself, John feels his anger beginning to wilt.

            “They’re not habit-forming,” he says, uselessly. “And if they know that you were in rehab before, they won’t give you anything you can complain about. They’re careful.”

            Sherlock groans, deep in his chest, and collapses onto the end of the bed. He’s still wearing the suit John had seen him in earlier; it’s a bit more rumpled, now, and the sight makes something inside of John tilt its head and purse its lips in something like pity.

            “You said I was a doctor,” he offers into the silence. Sherlock looks up at him. “How did you know?”

            A small smile works its way across Sherlock’s face, though it looks more rueful than anything truly happy.

            “Cheated a bit there,” he says. “The doctor referred to you as Doctor Watson when she mentioned whom I would be rooming next to. I can be more resourceful than that if you’d like, though.”

            Intrigued, John takes a step closer. “What do you mean?”

            Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him, but he’s sitting straighter now, the grief of a moment before forgotten, and a small, hidden part of John is pleased that he’d managed to help. Then Sherlock’s reaching into his pocket to take out an expensive-looking mobile phone and patting the empty space beside him and John freezes. “Come over here, I’ll show you.”

            “No, thanks. Fine right where I am.”

            Sherlock glances up at him in surprise; then his face sours.

            “I’ve told you twice today that I have no interest in omegas, John,” he says impatiently. “I’m only showing you photographs.” He holds out his phone so that John can see the screen, and indeed, there’s a picture of—is that a _body?_ —staring up at him from the glass.

            “I’m a detective,” Sherlock says at the look of consternation John shoots him. “I assure you, I didn’t kill any of them, merely solved their murders. Or suicides, in two of their cases.”

            The reasonable, the _sensible_ half of John is telling him that he needs to get out of here as soon as possible. That Sherlock, an _alpha_ , is absolutely barking mad and how in the world does he expect John to believe that he’s a detective, rather than a murderer, when he has pictures of _multiple dead people_ on his phone?

            The other half of John, the one that’s lain apathetically on the floor of his psyche ever since coming back from Afghanistan, is lifting its head ever so slightly in curiosity, and John can’t quite convince himself to move.

            After another few seconds of silence, Sherlock rolls his eyes and hands over his phone with a huff of exasperation. “First one. Michael Kimberley. Apparent cause of death was accidental drowning—suicide, according to Scotland Yard. _Actual_ cause of death: still drowning, but very much on purpose; murdered by his girlfriend in their flat, then transported to the Thames and dumped. Not the most interesting of cases, but it was a way to spend an afternoon.”

            Absolutely mad. John takes a closer look at the photo. “How could you tell?”

            Sherlock smirks, then launches into a detailed explanation involving head wounds, strangulation marks, and bacterial samples from bath and river water. The story is as fantastic as it is unbelievable, yet John finds himself hanging on to every word. By the time Sherlock comes to an exhilarating end, John’s even managed to perch at arm’s length on the edge of the mattress—to relieve the aching in his leg, he tells himself,  despite the fact that he hasn’t noticed his leg in over an hour.

            “It’s getting late,” Sherlock remarks suddenly. “You should get back to your room before people notice you’ve left.”

            John glances out the window. The sky outside is just starting to grey, and with a start he realises that he’s been sitting here talking about murder with Sherlock for hours.

            On his _bed_.

            “Yeah. Yeah, of course.” He stands, perhaps a bit too quickly, and winces as his bad leg makes contact with the floor. _Why_ hadn’t he thought to bring his cane? “It was good talking to you.”

            “Likewise.” Sherlock watches him curiously. “I assume you don’t want me to walk you to the door?”

            “God, no.” John’s heart rate is starting to pick up, but he still manages to twitch his lips at the joke and makes his way to the exit as best he can without succumbing too badly to the limp. “I’ll see—I mean, goodnight, Sherlock.”

            “Good morning, John.”

            _Damn it._

            John waits until he’s safely ensconced within his own room before he allows the curse to pass his lips, then closes his eyes and leans his forehead heavily against the cool wood of the door.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! I was worried for a bit that I wasn't going to be able to get this up in time- internet got knocked out in a storm two days ago and still hasn't come back yet (we're winging it right now with satellite stuff), and I'm starting my volunteer work on Monday where I'm teaching children English and I'm very very anxious. Still, I think the chapter came out all right and I already have a few ideas for the next one, whenever I get a chance to work on it.
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy.

            Sherlock doesn’t come to breakfast the next morning.

            John had almost skipped as well—it’s not mandatory, and he’s hardly ever hungry these days—but the idea of waiting around in his room for Sherlock to show up and demand… _something_ after their conversation last night had roiled his stomach more than the smell of eggs and cheese would have done and so he’d pulled himself from bed with a growl and limped down the hall to the cafeteria, an unfriendly scowl plastered on his face. He can’t ever be alone in a room with Sherlock again, he tells himself; it had been a stupid idea to even go over in the first place. Reckless. Dangerous. What if it had just been a ploy? What if Sherlock had been waiting right behind his door to grab John as he entered, had struck him on the back of the head to make him dazed and compliant as he—

            _Stop it._ Sherlock had been nothing but polite to him during their conversation. He’d confided in John, even, had admitted that the facility was going to prescribe him drugs to bring up his libido. He’d been ashamed of it.

            _But he’s still an alpha,_ his inner voice points out. _And in much better health than you are. He could overpower you easily, mount you,_ bind _you—_

_STOP it._ John’s hand tightens on his cane as his eyes sweep the room, searching for a mostly empty table. Even if Sherlock _were_ interested in finding an omega (and he’s not, he’d said so), why on earth would he pick John? John, who can barely breathe without assistance, John who can barely _walk._ Surely he’d want a younger omega, someone who’s been celibate for far shorter a time than John, someone who isn’t on the brink of death.

            None of the tables are empty. It figures. John goes to turn around and head back to his room, but pauses once he’s only made it halfway. He hadn’t noticed Sherlock anywhere. That’s not… implausible, really, but despite his fear that Sherlock would have somehow cornered him in his bedroom if he’d stayed behind, he’d been operating under the assumption that he’d see him here in the cafeteria. But there’s no sign of him.

            He scans the tables again. Nothing. No head of dark, curly hair anywhere. John’s stomach goes cold. He… hadn’t been right, had he?

            Ignoring the amused stares of the alphas at the closest table, he promptly spins around and limps his way as fast as he can back down the hallway to his room.

 -

            Of course, on his way back he needs to pass by the nurses’ station, and along with it the pharmacy window. Henry peeks out as he goes by.

            “Watson!” he calls. John halts, grimacing, but makes sure he puts on a polite smile before turning around.

            “Morning, Henry,” he says wearily. “What can I do for you?”

            Henry doesn’t reply right away. Instead he hesitates, glancing meaningfully down the hall towards John’s room, and John suddenly grows alert. “What is it?”

            “I’d… wait, a bit, before going back,” Henry says. He clears his throat, looking down at the desk, and John hears the sound of shuffling papers. “Just as a precaution, mind, but—”

            “What’s going on?” John demands. “Is someone in my room?”

            Henry’s mouth curls downwards, and John’s eyes dart to the series of cubbyholes on the wall labelled with the names of the patients. Most of them are full, stocked with the pills and solutions for the day, but one of them is empty.

            S Holmes. John’s mouth tightens.

            “It could go perfectly smoothly,” Henry reassures him. “But just in case he gets… difficult, it might be best if you wait. Don’t want it to—distress you, you know.”

            John scowls and ignores the warning, limping off down the hall towards his and Sherlock’s rooms. _Distress_ him. He scoffs. Who do they think he is? John was a _soldier_ before, not some weeping, fainting flower. Ridiculous.

            Sherlock’s door is ajar, he notices, once he reaches the end of the hallway. He also notices that there are voices coming from inside, one of them Sherlock’s.

            “You can’t be serious.” His tone is flat, but John can hear the agitation beneath it. “Surely there’s a pill form of this.”

            “A few, yeah.” It’s one of the male nurses in there with him. Not one John knows too personally, however. “Less likely that you’ll throw it up after I leave, though, and no chance that you’ll tongue it and spit it out later. I know what you people get up to around here.”

            There’s a beat of silence. John takes a step closer but then hesitates, unsure if he actually wants to look in on what’s happening. Sherlock speaks up again, voice strained.

            “You know my history involving injectable drugs.”

            “Won’t be a problem,” the nurse says gruffly. “Now gimme your arm and be quick about it.”

            There’s another silence, then a hiss—probably from Sherlock, John realises—and the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as the weight of what he’s just heard hits him.

            “Finally.” The nurse peels off his gloves, the thin crinkle of latex sharp in John’s ears. “The drug’s delayed-action, so it’ll take a couple of days to build up in your system. First thing most people notice is some restlessness, agitation, that sort of thing. You should start feeling symptoms similar to rut after about three or four days. We’ll check blood levels in a week, see if we need to alter the dose. Any questions?”

            More silence. The nurse makes a quiet _tch_ sound, then proceeds to gather up his supplies and John quickly opens his own door.

            Is that’s what’s going to happen to _him?_ He leans heavily against the wood, counting his breaths in an attempt to try and calm his pounding heart. It can’t be. They can’t induce heat in him—Ella had said that his next one would probably kill him. …It might _feel_ like heat, though; the nurse had only said to Sherlock that it would feel like rut, not that it would _be_ rut. John licks his lips anxiously.

            And what happens when the medicine starts working? He’s the closest omega, spatially, to Sherlock; will Sherlock come to him first, force his way into John’s room while he’s sleeping to relieve his urges? Seek him out during the day and back him into a closet? Corner him while out in the gardens?

            John’s resolve hardens. He needs to stay away from Sherlock, starting immediately. It’s not safe. Something in his chest twinges briefly at the decision, but he shoves it away and ignores it. He’s not here to make friends, he reminds himself, he’s here to die. Perhaps he should try and remember that.

 

* * *

 

            Time seems to slow to a crawl over the next few days. Now that John’s actively avoiding the one interesting thing that’s happened to him since arriving here, his days seem greyer and longer than ever.

            He skips meals, only going to the cafeteria once the nurses start threatening to force feed him through a tube. Everything he eats is tasteless and bland, and he only manages to swallow about half of his plate before he has to get up and leave, ignoring the pitying looks from the other alphas and omegas at his table. Lounge hours are practically non-existent; if he notices Sherlock sitting on the sofa through the glass panel in the door, John will turn around and go right back to his room. Even the gardens have become a source of danger; John spends the entire time looking over his shoulder and peering over topiaries to see if Sherlock’s following him. It eventually gets so tiring that he stops bothering to go outside.

            Therapy is torturous. Ella keeps him updated every day on the progress of his new treatment plan, and John takes in each new item with a quiet nod of the head as he stares out the window at the clouds. Her words wash over him like a wave, like a stifling blanket; he would be unable to tell her what she’d just said if she asked. She never does. Perhaps she realises that it would be a waste of time.

            Two more months, John tells himself every day. Less than two months, now, and he’s free. He can do this.

 -

            On the fourth day since the start of Sherlock’s treatment, John finds himself with a rare moment alone in the lounge. It’s just about dinnertime, and everyone else has gone off to the cafeteria. John’s already had his therapy appointment for the day, so no one’s going to be out looking for him. That means at least an hour of uninterrupted quiet; one that he fully intends to take advantage of.

            John spends several minutes at first just standing in the centre of the room, eyes closed, breathing in the silence. His lungs, for once, do not trouble him, and he smiles as his breaths come and go smoothly. He’d almost forgotten what that felt like. Once he’s breathed his fill, he heads over to the bookshelf to try and find something that he hasn’t already read. His finger slides over battered, torn spines, most of which are familiar to him; _The Lord of the Rings_ , _Harry Potter_ , _Lord of the Flies._ He’s paged through most of these during his time here—not too much else to do with himself, and it’s nice to forget about his own life for an hour or three. His finger catches on the slightly ragged spine of _Flowers for Algernon_ and he ponders the title for a moment before the doorknob rattles. He glances over his shoulder, ready to growl at whoever it is that’s disrupted him, but once he sees who it is, exasperation shatters into adrenaline and leaves John frozen with indecision.

            It’s Sherlock.

            He doesn’t say anything to John at first, merely glances in his direction and then nonchalantly back towards the couches. After a moment of thought he settles on the one beside the window—the one John had been wanting—then pulls out his phone to study the screen. John scowls. _Arse._

            Sherlock’s scent has changed over the past few days. That was only to be expected, considering the medication, but it’s been putting John on edge whenever they’ve been in close proximity with one another. He doesn’t smell like he’s in rut quite yet, but he does smell _interested_ , frustrated, and John’s heard him snap at the nurse administering his injections for the past two days. He’s prowling. _Unsafe._

            _Stop fucking scenting him and get on with it._ John swipes the book off the shelf with perhaps a bit more force than necessary, and then aims for a couch on the other side of the room. He won’t be scared away this time. He’s got just as much right to be here as Sherlock, and he’s determined to enjoy himself.

            “I wouldn’t sit there if I were you.”

            Sherlock’s voice is quiet, but arresting enough for John to stop in his tracks and turn halfway around to glare at him. “Why not?”

            Sherlock hasn’t even bothered to look up from his phone. “Andrew and Tobias used it for a liaison this morning. The fabric still reeks of omega.”

            John takes several steps backwards in disgust. Now that Sherlock’s mentioned it, he can’t not notice the stench. The omega smell is weaker than that of the alpha (to him, anyway), but still present and still off-putting. “Couldn’t have been polite enough to use one of their bedrooms, could they?”

            “Speaking of polite.” There’s a quiet click as Sherlock turns off his phone’s screen. “Have I offended you in some way? You’ve been avoiding me since Sunday.”

            John stares at him in disbelief. “I knew you for all of twelve hours,” he protests. “Does that give me an obligation to spend time with you?”

            “You were interested in me,” Sherlock says. “Not sexually, obviously, but I intrigued you. You _wanted_ to get to know me. But after I was given the first injection, you started keeping your distance. Too abruptly and too soon to smell the difference on me; you were there when it happened, and it disturbed you. You think that you want to avoid me because I’m an alpha and therefore dangerous, but it’s really because you’re afraid of what your own treatment is going to be like and you don’t want to get a preview by watching me.” He cuts off the deduction and glares at John, chin raised in challenge. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

            John hadn’t appreciated being cracked open and examined the first time they met, and he certainly doesn’t appreciate it now.

            “Why do you even care?” he demands. “I’m nothing to you, we don’t _know_ each other. You just came in here, Mr Casual Drug Addict, with your plans to get in, fuck an omega, and get out so you could get back to your wildly exciting life deducing corpses while high. Where, precisely, in all of that do I—” his breath hitches. “I…” _Oh, no._ He gasps, a rough, pitiful sound, and Sherlock’s eyes widen, anger forgotten.

            “John?”

            John shakes his head and lowers himself slowly to his knees, bracing himself with one hand on the floor while the other seeks out his trumpet. _Breathe. Relax._ He tries counting, slowing down his breaths to try and allow his airways to relax, but the spasm is too strong. He can’t fight it. Again he gasps, sucking in oxygen that his lungs won’t accept, and his hand trembles, fumbling on the plastic. _Damn it. DAMN it, not this way!_

            Another hand covers his own.

            “No!” There’s no voice behind the word, however, or at least not anything more substantial than an unrefined croak. Sherlock ignores it, ripping the trumpet out of his grasp, then depresses the button and shoves it up against John’s mouth and nose.

            _Oxygen._ John breathes in as hard as he can, sucking breath after breath from the device despite the disgusting taste. It hadn’t been as bad this time—he hadn’t been deprived long enough to make him feel faint, for instance—but the fear is always bad, the pressing terror of not being able to breathe, and he just revels in the feel of his lungs expanding and contracting until he suddenly remembers that it’s not his finger on the button.

            His eyes snap open. Sherlock is leaning over him, watching him intently, but the only hand on John is the one on the back of his neck, helping him to keep his face pressed up against the plastic. John’s lip curls back to bare his teeth, but the gesture is weak and quickly fades. At least like this he can’t smell Sherlock.

            _Small mercies._

            “Are you all right?” Sherlock’s eyes, sharp and worried, search his own and his grip shifts slightly on the trumpet’s handle. “Can you breathe now?”

            John rolls his eyes weakly and takes in a pointed, deep breath. Sherlock huffs.

            “Yes, fine, you’ve made your point.” He sits back and proceeds to look around the room, gauging, judging. “Do you want me to get someone? Or do you just need to sit until it passes?”

            John glances longingly towards the sofa. It’s the most comfortable one they have in the lounge, but he doesn’t want to ask. Sherlock’s just been sitting in it; his pheromones will be all over it, and the thought of smelling like him, even just a little bit, makes his stomach turn.

            “Oh for God’s sake. Hold this.” Sherlock brings up one of John’s hands to hold the trumpet in place, then shifts his own to support John’s upper back and his legs behind the knee. Before John can protest, he’s been lifted into the air and then deposited rather unceremoniously onto the soft cushions.

            “Better now?” Sherlock doesn’t wait for a response before walking back to where John had fallen to retrieve the book and his cane.

            John fully expects him to leave at this point. He’s saved John from dying, at least for the moment, and there’s nothing else he can really do to make the attack go away any faster. He’ll be fine soon enough, and without good conversation he suspects Sherlock’s attention will wander away from John and onto something vastly more interesting.

            Sherlock, however, does not leave. Once he’s placed John’s belongings onto the floor beside him, he pulls out his phone once more and settles himself at John’s feet, scrolling across the screen idly. For all intents and purposes, it looks like he’s forgotten that John even exists.

            It’s strangely pleasant.

            For the next several minutes, John tries his best to forget that Sherlock is there. He closes his eyes, hums to himself behind the plastic, flexes his toes just because he can. Sherlock doesn’t make a sound, and doesn’t move to touch him even once. Eventually John dares to pull the trumpet away from his mouth and sucks in a careful, un-medicated breath. It’s smooth, with no hint of alpha pheromones that he can taste. Wonderful.

            Speaking of which… He glances over at Sherlock, still engrossed in his phone. He doesn’t _look_ like he’s suffering from rut. There’s no sweating, no growling, no gritting his teeth or looking around for something to fuck. He’s just… web surfing. Next to John. An _omega._ Perhaps the medication isn’t as strong as John had feared? John scratches a nail along the seam of his jeans anxiously. Maybe… just one breath couldn’t hurt, could it?

            Carefully, carefully, John sneaks a breath in through his nose, nostrils flaring. At first there’s nothing, his sense of smell dulled by the medicine. Then, a moment later, it hits: _Alpha. Rut. Need, frustrated need._ John lets out his breath with a whoosh and that, finally, is what gets Sherlock to turn and look at him.

            “What’s the matter?”

            “How can you _tolerate_ that?” John demands breathlessly. Damn it, he hadn’t meant to give away what he’d been doing so easily, but _god,_ that self-control. “You smell so—” he waves his hand around vaguely. Sherlock looks at him, face blank, for a moment, then realisation dawns.

            “You mean the arousal.” He glances down at himself and John’s gaze follows for a handful of seconds before he realises that that’s probably not the politest thing to do. Nor the safest.

            “I’ve been dealing with it for a long time,” Sherlock continues with a shrug. “It’s not terribly difficult to ignore, so long as I isolate myself.”

            “But you’re not,” John points out. “You’re in a facility full of omegas. There’s someone in heat every other week.”

            “Precisely why I’m staying away from them,” Sherlock replies. “And why I’m in here with you, instead.”

            If he’d been any other omega, John might have taken offense to that. As much as he hates to admit it, he _is_ an omega, and Sherlock’s implication that he’s somehow not enough of one to constitute a distraction is insulting. On the other hand… it also reassures John that Sherlock doesn’t see him as prey. That he’s not going to pursue him as a potential mate.

            That John is safe.

            John studies Sherlock for a long moment, eyes tracing the lines of his hands, his body, his face. Sherlock does not move; his eyes are silver and intense as they watch John, but John is no longer afraid. Sherlock’s body is relaxed as it sits beside him in the chair, and there is no edge of hunger to his gaze as their eyes meet.

            Sherlock will not hurt him. John is safe.

            Slowly, just in case he’s judged wrong (and please, please don’t let him have judged wrong about this), John leans forward and swings his legs around until he’s sitting upright, just a foot away from Sherlock. They look at each other quietly, wary as two animals meeting each other in the wood, and then John takes a deep breath, and offers his olive branch.

            “Tell me,” he says, much more calmly than he feels. “What other sorts of things do you get up to, back in London?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so I'm actually posting this a lot earlier than I thought I'd be able to! It's not quite as long as I wanted it to be? But I thought it was an okay place to stop, and I would rather give you guys something after waiting a month than slogging on ahead not knowing where I was going. (Though I do have some sort of idea- I've shuffled around scenes and replanned where I wanted things to go, and I'm actually really excited to write what's coming up next. I just need to do some world planning first.)
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy it, and I'll see you in a few weeks back in Whispers. (Or maybe my oneshot, if I ever end up finishing it. :P)
> 
> There are WARNINGS for this chapter if you are someone who is bothered by the idea of conversion therapy and the loss of patient autonomy. Granted, the whole fic is like this, but this chapter and the next will deal with it much more heavily. Letting you know up front.

            The next three days pass by almost in what John could call a blur.

            Now that they’ve reached something of a truce, Sherlock seeks him out in practically every spare moment they have while not sleeping or in therapy. Sometimes he’s a silent shadow to John, sitting beside him on the couch or at the same table in the cafeteria, scrolling on his phone or flipping through a book. Other times he’s endlessly talkative, showing John yet another crime scene photo or deducing secrets about the other patients that John really hadn’t wanted to know. (“That one tried dosing himself with oestrogen to stave off the erections from rut,” he’d told John one night at dinner. “Might have worked, too, if his family hadn’t found out; now he’s got breast growth he hadn’t counted on and he’s self-conscious about it.” Or, while passing by a teenage girl out in the gardens one afternoon; “That one was saving up to go to one of those fancy private clinics for omegas only, but her parents found the money and shipped her off here as a moral deviant. They’ll likely have told all her friends in order to isolate her.”) John appreciates the company, really; it’s much more pleasant than walking through the halls day-to-day like a ghost. But not everything’s perfect.

            Ella’s told him that his new treatment regimen has been finished. They’re sending it to his family for review over the weekend, and if everything is in order it can be implemented starting Monday. She’d offered to let John look at it, but after very little deliberation John had said no. He has a good enough idea of what it’ll entail, and he doesn’t want to spend what might be the last two clearheaded days he’ll have worrying about what’s going to happen to him. He’d much rather spend them talking to Sherlock, a preference that Ella, unfortunately, has decided to comment upon.

            “You were only telling me a few days ago that you ‘didn’t want him anywhere near you,’” she says during their session on the first Saturday since Sherlock’s arrival at the clinic. She glances up from her notepad to John’s face. “What’s changed?”

            “I found out that he didn’t plan on coming on to me every time he saw me.” John glares at Ella over his folded arms. “Amazing how that makes me want to actually spend time with someone.”

            Ella ignores the snark. “This is good news, John,” she says. “You’ve found an alpha that you enjoy spending time with. What draws you to him?”

            John’s fairly sure that _he shows me photos of dead people_ and _tells me the deepest darkest secrets of the entire patient body_ would not be considered acceptable responses. He settles for a shrug. “Bit intelligent, isn’t he.”

            “And attractive?”

            The fishing makes John want to grit his teeth in frustration. What’s it to him if Sherlock’s attractive? He won’t deny it, the alpha’s as handsome as they come, but he’s _not interested_ , and _John’s_ sure as hell not interested, and so _nothing’s going to happen._

            “Yeah. Sure. Attractive.” He offers Ella an insincere smile and turns to look out the window, ready to disconnect from the session.

            “John.” Ella shifts forward in her seat. “You’re a doctor. You know how potent Sherlock’s medication is. He’ll be in chemically induced rut within a week; wouldn’t you want to help him out? I’m sure he’d appreciate it.”

            John snorts. _Appreciate it._ As if John was just helping him move house or giving him a loan, rather than offering himself up for _sex._

            “Think about it.” Ella shoots him a meaningful look, and then rather graciously ends the session early.

 

* * *

 

            The thing about Sherlock being on his medication, John muses later as he and Sherlock sit side-by-side on what’s become “their” couch in the lounge, is that the effects have been making themselves almost as insistent to him as they have been to Sherlock himself. He doesn’t mean chemically—John hasn’t felt any spontaneous urge to drop to his knees and offer himself up to Sherlock, nor have there been any sympathetic heat symptoms that he’s noticed—but other omegas in the facility, ones that are close to heat, have approached them while in the lounge or out in the gardens, hopeful looks on their faces as they ask Sherlock if he could maybe, possibly, think about helping them tomorrow, in three days time, next week. They always cast a guilty glance over at John as they ask, probably assuming that he’s Sherlock’s soon-to-be-claimed omega; Sherlock always turns them down, however, and John isn’t sure what to think.

            He knows it’s got to be terribly uncomfortable at this point; the chemicals of rut are just as potent as those that cause heat, and it’s a miracle that Sherlock hasn’t given in yet and accepted one of their offers. (John knows he hasn’t; Sherlock wouldn’t do it out in a public room or garden, and John’s never heard him bring a visitor back at night.) But then how is he managing it? The question’s constantly at the forefront of his mind as they sit together throughout the day, Sherlock’s pheromones heavy on his tongue, but it still seems a bit too personal to ask.

            And so he doesn’t.

            “Donna’s going into heat tomorrow,” he remarks offhandedly instead as a means of testing the waters. Sherlock doesn’t appear to hear him, however, tapping away at a chess app on his phone while John pretends to page through _Flowers for Algernon._ He hasn’t been able to pay much attention to the words today; Sherlock’s lip’s been curled into an almost-scowl for near ten minutes now, and he keeps fidgeting around in his seat. It’s enough to make John wonder if it would help for him to shift to the other side of the room (though of course he won’t; there’s two alphas sitting over there, and god help him, he feels safer next to Sherlock).

            “And?” Sherlock stabs viciously at his screen, scowling when the computer takes one of his pieces. “I’m sure she’ll manage quite admirably on her own.”

            John’s nose twitches. Surreptitiously, he glances around the room to make sure that the other two occupants aren’t listening in, then continues on in a lower voice. “I was just wondering if it wouldn’t help you to, you know…” he hesitates. “Relieve some tension.”

            Sherlock makes another move on his screen. “Everything is under control, John,” he replies tightly. “I’m perfectly fine.”

            John snorts. “No you’re not—you’ve had to leave dinner twice in the last three days to go have a wank in the loo, and then just yesterday you spent an hour in there after Janine practically fell on you out in the garden. You’re not all right.”

            “Flattered you’ve been counting.”

            “Just _listen_ to me, Sherlock.”

            Sherlock doesn’t turn to look at him, but his eyebrows are lifted and John takes that as good of a sign as any. He sighs.

            “Look, it… it’s not going to get any better, you know, your… symptoms. They’re _drugging_ you. It’s not like your body’s just going to go through its cycle and then you’ll be done. It’s just going to keep getting worse and worse until you—”

            “Until I either break down and have sex with an omega or decide to kill myself, is that it?” Sherlock’s eyes bore into his and John is suddenly torn with the urge to both look away in embarrassment and stand his ground. “I’m waiting to do it on my own terms, John, not because their drugs and my ridiculous hormones say so. I’m perfectly capable of waiting.” He turns back to his game, eyes hard and jaw set. “If I have to, I’ll call Mycroft. He can tell them to stop this foolishness.”

            John stares. His stunned silence must not have been an anticipated response, however, as Sherlock looks back at him after a few moments, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

            “John?”

            “I’ve been an idiot,” John breathes.

            “What?”

            “Give me your phone.”

 

* * *

 

            They end up going back to Sherlock’s room, since even though mobile phones are not _technically_ forbidden in the facility (much like leaving one’s room at night), what they’re about to do with Sherlock’s certainly is.

            John punches in the number from memory, hoping to god as he does so that the months he’s spent locked up in here have not eroded his memory. Sherlock looks on in quiet bewilderment; John hadn’t given him much of an explanation in the lounge, preferring to usher them both into the relative safety of the bedroom. John steadfastly ignores the voice in the back of his mind that insists he hadn’t said anything because he’s only half certain that this is going to work. He knows it will. It _has to._

            The phone rings, and rings and rings. John begins to pace, teeth worrying at the tender inside of his lower lip. _Pick up, damn it. Pick up, pick up, pick up—_

            Just as John’s about to give up hope, there’s a soft _click_ and a bewildered-sounding voice speaks into the phone. “Hello?”

            “Harry.” John’s breath comes whooshing out of him in a sigh of relief. “Harry, it’s John.”

            “John?” Harry sounds even more confused. “Where are you calling from? You haven’t got a mobile—does the hospital have pay phones? Do you even have any _money_ on you?”

            “Harry, Harry, listen to me,” John says. “That’s not important. I need to talk to you about my treatment plan.”

            The other end of the phone goes silent. John can hear the thud of his heart pounding in his ears, can feel the blood pulsing against the warm plastic; _please,_ he begs silently, _don’t let this have all been for nothing._ But thankfully there’s no click or any other sound to suggest that Harry’s hung up on him, and after what feels like an age, Harry finally speaks again. “What about it?”

            “I need you to call—I need you, or Mum, or Dad, to call—and tell them to reconsider.” Harry says nothing. Despite himself, John can feel his throat tighten and he throws a desperate glance back at Sherlock, who is watching him intently.

            “Harry?”

            “I can’t do that, John,” Harry says slowly. “You’re ill. You need to be treated. They were telling us only last week that you’ve been needing your rescue medication practically every other day!”

            “Yes, but there’s _other ways to do this!_ ” John cuts himself off before he says anything more, forcing himself to breathe slowly in through his nose and out through his mouth. He needs to calm down. Getting upset will only make him look worse. More unstable. More _sick._ But John can’t completely force down the panic that’s threatening to overwhelm him. He has to get out of here. He’ll die if he doesn’t. He’ll go mad. “Look. Harry.” _Breathe_. “There’s other clinics out there. Ones that can give me suppressants, synthesised hormones. I know they exist; I’ve read about them. I promise, I’ll go to one of those if you just—”

            “They’re not covered,” Harry says flatly. “They’re private, outrageously expensive excuses for hospitals, and their therapies are utter bullshit. Synthesised hormones? Who knows what that could do to you, John? We’re trying to get you _better,_ not poison you with shoddy medicine!”

            “But it’s _not_ ,” John snaps. “The army managed it, you know. Before I ever got in here. We didn’t have to have heats, out in Afghanistan.”

            “And who says it’s not their fucking hormones that messed you up and made you think it’s better to _die_ than just enjoy a heat like a normal omega?” Harry sighs heavily into the phone and John closes his eyes, a heavy weight settling over him like a blanket.

            It’s over.

            “We’re not changing our minds about this, John. You’re going to go through the treatment, and you’re going to get healthy, and you’re going to come home to us _normal,_ do you hear me? _Don’t_ call us again unless it’s to tell us that you’re fixed.”

            There’s an abrupt _click,_ and suddenly John is once again alone.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! So I'm actually reeeally excited about this chapter. I was a bit worried at first, because I only had three scenes planned and it looked like the whole chapter was only going to be about two thousand words. But then I just started typing a couple days ago, and then the words wouldn't stop falling out- I got over 3,000 words from yesterday and today alone. So here you go, and enjoy~
> 
> WARNING: This chapter is *very* heavy on suicidal ideation and includes a suicide attempt. Please tread carefully.

            Surprisingly, he can breathe just fine.

            He shouldn’t be able to; stress, once it manages to get its claws on him through the constant fog of apathy he’s surrounded himself in since arriving at the facility, is the bane of his existence. It tightens his airways, squeezes his diaphragm, and generally turns him into a wheezing, pathetic mess that can’t even manage to hold itself upright. Yet here he is, suffering what is perhaps the second-worst stress of his life (please, god, let him live), and breathing without any trouble at all.

            Perhaps it’s because he’s so calm.

            Oh, he’s stressed, no doubt about that—in two days he’s going to be subjected to all manner of invasive and humiliating procedures in his doctors’ last attempt to fix him before it all goes to hell and his last line of defence has completely forsaken him—but now that he knows there’s no hope left, it’s startlingly clear what he has to do.

            The only problem is how.

            As a result of being under constant suicide watch, his options are rather limited; he has no access to shaving razors without the careful eye of a nurse, and all of the shower stalls in the facility have sloped floors. None of John’s medications are particularly dangerous if taken at high levels, and of course there’s nothing that could approximate an efficient weapon. Briefly, he entertains the thought of just going out into the garden and eating anything he can find with the hope that one of the plants would be poisonous, but he discards it quickly as ridiculous. Even if they had been foolish enough while designing the garden to include toxic flowers or plants, it’s almost certain that they would have antidotes, or at the very least a handful of emetics.

            But then what can he do?

            John stops his pacing and turns to look out the window, gazing apathetically at the pink-tinted sky. The setting sun casts streaks of orange and red across the thick windowpanes and reflects onto the off-white blinds in a way that he perhaps ought to find soothing, but doesn’t.

            John pauses. The _blinds_ —how could he have not thought of them before? The cord that operates them is thin, but strong enough when he tugs on it, even when he yanks. This could work. A strange little pounding starts up in his chest as he realises that he might actually have a way out. Tonight. He can do this. He can _leave._

            But what about Sherlock? The thought draws John up short. They haven’t promised anything to each other, no, but John has to admit that he’s enjoyed the little bubble of “us against the world” they’ve built up over the past week. If he leaves, who will keep Sherlock sane in the face of chemically induced rut?

            _Now you’re getting ahead of yourself._ Sherlock’s made no indication to suggest that John’s company has been anything near that level of importance. Diverting, perhaps, but what else are they supposed to do while they’re locked in here together? Sit in the corners muttering to themselves? No. John was useful as someone to talk to, to spend time with, perhaps, but he’s confident Sherlock will be able to find someone else after he’s gone. Maybe it’ll even help him—as much he hates thinking it, he does like Sherlock and wants him to get out of here as soon as possible. Removing John might even help motivate Sherlock to actually find a partner, rather than petulantly sit on the sofa until they make his treatment even more severe.

            Yes, John leaving is the best thing to do. The _right_ thing to do.

            John gives the blinds a fond, final pat, then turns to his dresser to begin picking something nice out to wear for dinner. He might as well put in some effort for his last night with Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

            It’s the first time in quite a while that John can remember truly enjoying dinner. He waits for Sherlock outside of his room, dressed in the black and white striped jumper that had actually merited a compliment from Sherlock the first time he’d seen it (“you should wear that one more often, John. It makes you look… less aged.”), and a pair of non-ripped, freshly washed jeans. He even goes so far as to wash his face and comb his hair, and the effort certainly surprises Sherlock, who blinks at him several times before remembering to say hello. Some part of John preens at this, but he unceremoniously shoves it down and ignores it. Sherlock’s not interested (not that John wants him to be, obviously); he’s simply unused to John putting an effort into his appearance.

            (Even if it _were_ interest—which it’s not—it’s probably just the hormones causing it, anyway. What about _John_ could possibly interest Sherlock?) So John merely smiles and leads the way down to the cafeteria, and Sherlock doesn’t mention the phone call. Everything is blissfully normal.

            Well, not entirely. Whether it’s due to John’s newfound calm, or the fact that he looks more put-together today than he has for the entirety of his stay here, several of the other patients take the liberty of joining him and Sherlock at their table as they eat. Bill, an omega with symptoms even more severe than John’s, smiles warmly at them as he struggles down into his seat.

            “Evening,” he rasps. John smiles back, though internally it pains him to see a man as young as Bill so reduced by illness. He’s barely turned thirty-five, yet his fine motor control is shot, making it difficult for him to eat with utensils, and his breathing is constantly laboured despite taking the same medication as John. His morale, however, is always inspiring.

            “Evening,” John replies. “Treatment go okay today?”

            Bill snorts. “They wish. Gave me a pill an’ made me watch a video of some pretty alpha lady touching herself, but it didn’t do anything worth a damn. Well. Gave me fuckin’ wet pants for half an hour, but that was just the meds. _I_ didn’t care. Could’ve told them I wouldn’t before they started, but would they’ve listened? No.” He shakes his head and brings up a spoonful of soup with a trembling hand. “You? When’s yours start?”

            “Monday.” The word comes out a bit too nonchalantly and John looks down to prod at his soup, avoiding Bill and Sherlock’s eyes. “I’m… trying not to be too worried about it, though.”

            “Atta boy.” Bill reaches over and shoves John’s arm playfully. “Show ‘em who’s boss. And what about you?” He turns to look at Sherlock; John sees his nose wrinkle slightly as he catches the scent of rut. “Gonna find an omega soon to take care of that for you, or are you over in our camp?”

            “Still deciding,” Sherlock remarks lightly. “You offering?”

            Bill laughs. “Not on your life, mate.”

            The side of Sherlock’s mouth quirks up at the joke and then dinner continues on as normal. …Except that Sherlock’s hip seems to shift closer to John’s on the bench than is strictly casual, and his elbow brushes against John’s more often than can be easily explained away by him being right-handed and John using his left. John doesn’t say anything about it, however, merely shifts a bit further over and smiles reassuringly at Sherlock when he glances over as if to check whether something is wrong.

 -

            Later, after dessert has been served (strawberry cheesecake, which Sherlock devours and John can only poke listlessly at), the other patients trickle off to either the medicine line, the TV room or their own beds. John hesitates for a moment at the door to the TV room; it’s the omegas’ night for control of the remote, and he watches as Bill tussles with another omega for it, loses, and flops down into an armchair only to be presented with it along with a laugh and a clap on the back. They’re rowdy tonight; maybe it’s a new episode of Top Gear on. John sucks in a deep breath, then releases it slowly.

            God, he’s going to miss this. Not the being locked up part of it, obviously, but this… easy camaraderie they all have together, fighting against something way bigger than any single one of them. It’s like being back in the army again, in a way.

            “John?”

            John jumps, startled. He hadn’t realised Sherlock was still behind him.

            “Yeah? What is it?” He turns around to see Sherlock standing a few paces away from him, watching him, head tilted. “You okay?”

            “Fine. John…” Sherlock uncrosses his arms and take a step forward, eyebrows lowered in concern. “Is everything all right?”

            A chill runs down John’s spine. He doesn’t—he can’t _know_ , surely? John hasn’t said anything that could be construed as a goodbye, has he? Hasn’t written a note, hasn’t done anything that’s stereotypically _what people do_ before they kill themselves, and certainly not around Sherlock, so how can he possibly know?

            “Y…eah,” he says slowly. “Sherlock, are you sure _you’re_ all right? You’ve been acting a bit… odd, tonight.”

            “I told you, I’m fine.” Sherlock seems irritated. “I’m not _having a reaction_ , if that’s what you’re implying, I just wanted to ask you, since you’re suddenly so _chipper_ about your impending treatment—”

            “Holmes!”

            Sherlock rolls his eyes with enough force to strain something but turns his head obligingly towards the med line, and John hesitates again. Part of him knows that this is his best chance to get away without drawing attention to himself; Sherlock’s distracted, and really, adding anything else to this encounter will only make him more suspicious than he already is. By the time Sherlock will remember he’d even been talking to John, he could be free, the deed already done. And yet… after what they’ve been through this week, together, he doesn’t want Sherlock’s last memory of him to be this awkward conversation in the hallway, ruined by facility personnel. And what’s wrong with just a few more hours, anyway?

            “Hey.” John lays a hand carefully on Sherlock’s arm to grab his attention. “I’ll just be in the TV room, okay? Come and find me when you’re done.”

            “Holmes!”

            Sherlock gives him a quick nod, then turns and heads over to the nurse at the front of the line. As he goes, John reaches up and massages the bridge of his nose with finger and thumb, suddenly exhausted. Why had he done that? Now he’s going to have to sit around for ages with _people_ who will ask him _questions_ that he has to pretend to be interested in, and it gives Sherlock another opportunity to tell John that yes, actually, he’s deduced that John plans to kill himself and shouldn’t you just stick around for another month or two, John, just in case you find an alpha that _doesn’t_ turn your stomach and fuck them?

            He sighs. But he can’t leave now, that’d make things even worse. So, with an eye roll of his own, he turns and trudges into the now-dark TV room and finds an unoccupied armchair in the corner to sink down into.

            And it is Top Gear. Fantastic.

 -

            Sherlock comes in about ten minutes into the episode, pausing for a moment to find John as his eyes adjust to the mostly dark room. He shuffles over awkwardly—shuffles? Oh. John averts his eyes and tries not to think about it—and then, after a moment of contemplation, plops down onto the floor at John’s feet. The move surprises John so much that he leans forward in his chair to try and get a good look at Sherlock’s face. (He’d been half-expecting Sherlock to demand that he give up his seat, if he’s being honest, or maybe try and perch on the back like some great enormous bird.) But Sherlock seems to take no notice of John, hunkering down against the upholstery with his arms crossed and legs pulled up to his chest to hide anything awkward. John opens his mouth, closes it, then sits back without saying a word.

            The episode is all right. John’s not paying particularly close attention—he’s not much into Top Gear anyway, and tonight’s not even an interesting episode. Just rich people in cars doing laps around a track. Instead he studies Sherlock, whose body language is somewhat concerning:

            He hasn’t relaxed out of his bunched-up pose in over ten minutes; rather, he seems to have _tightened_ his arms around his knees as if trying to hold himself back from doing something. What, John isn’t sure. His shoulders pull at the fabric of his suit jacket, and John can see one of his hands beating out an erratic tempo on the opposite arm.

            Have they changed something about his medication? Upped the dose? Added a new one? Any of them are likely, and John winces at the thought of what even _more_ hormones will do to Sherlock’s already strained body. He’s been told before that the arousal caused by rut is almost as strong as that caused by heat, and he hates the idea of Sherlock suffering that level of desperation day after day without end. At least John’s heat, whether he satisfies it or not, will go away within a few days; with chemicals and artificial hormones, Sherlock’s rut could last weeks, or even months—it’s all dependent upon the mercy—or cruelty—of his doctors.

            Finally, at the forty-five minute mark, Sherlock’s body gives a spastic shudder and then goes still, fingers clenched tight enough around his arms to make the knuckles go white. John opens his mouth in alarm, ready to actually say something this time, but before he can, Sherlock has stood, fists clenched by his sides, and practically flees the room without a word.

            Well. John glances around at the other omegas, only one or two of whom have even noticed the display. That was… well, rather expected, actually. Sitting in a room full of omegas, many of whom are fertile and close to heat, was probably not the best idea Sherlock has ever had. John feels almost guilty, since he doubts Sherlock would have bothered putting himself in that situation if John hadn’t suggested it. _Why_ hadn’t he said something more sensible, like sitting in the lounge, reading a book together, or even just _talking?_ Why did he have to make his last evening with Sherlock a test of his friend’s endurance, rather than something pleasant and calming that he could think back on fondly once John was gone? If he even thought of John after, anyway.

            John sobers and shakes his head, standing up as well. It doesn’t matter now. What’s done is done. Going to find Sherlock and talk it all out will probably just make it worse, and this gives him the perfect opportunity to slip away unnoticed anyway. His heart thuds off-tempo in a sudden bout of nerves, but he just squares his shoulders and ignores it. It’s what he has to do.

            With one last, fond look at the men and women he’s grudgingly become close to over the past several months, John finally tears his gaze away and strides forcefully out the door.

 -

            Sherlock’s room is quiet when he gets back. There’s a soft light peeking out from underneath the door, but John can’t hear any music, or footsteps to suggest that Sherlock’s pacing. Maybe he’s reading, or— _no, don’t think about that._ The urge to knock on his door is strong, to apologise for putting him in an uncomfortable situation in the TV room, but John refrains. It’s just another reason to stall, to put this off, and he can’t do it. He needs to do this _now,_ while he still has the confidence, before someone comes to visit him and finds him preparing. If he fails this time, he probably won’t ever get another chance.

            John takes a deep breath, then enters his room and shuts his door.

            The light from his little lamp is comforting when he turns it on, but after a moment of contemplating it, John realises that he can’t leave it lit while he goes; if a nurse walks by at two in the morning and sees his light still on, they’ll want to come in and figure out why. He knows he’ll most likely be beyond saving at that point, but the longer he can go without being found, the better. So, reluctantly, he turns off the light, settling the room back into darkness. A little bit of moonlight bleeds in through the blinds, and John goes over to stand by the window, staring outside as he thinks.

            It’s not about anything in particular, really. Mostly about a whole bunch of things; his treatment, the pills he doesn’t bother to take, either refusing to join the med line or spitting them out into the toilet when the nurses aren’t looking; his surgery that he never asked for and still feels the pain of sometimes when he tries to move too quickly, the scars pulling at the softer tissue surrounding them; the endless days and nights wondering if his next attack will be the one that kills him, wondering if he’ll be able to breathe normally or if he’ll be glued to his trumpet or, god forbid, the respirator for hours; walking the halls and the gardens endlessly, memorising every square inch of the hospital while he watches the other patients come and go, easily beaten down into compliance through psychological torment and drugs; Sherlock.

            He thinks about his family, about how they had never supported his choices, how they had always made him feel slighted and insulted when they’d hemmed and hawed over his decision to go to university, the offensively “concerned” statements they’d made over the phone when he’d want to tell them about a class he’d taken and all they cared about was if he’d met an interesting alpha; their collective astonishment when he told them that he was going to Afghanistan, that yes, the army took omegas, and gave them suppressants to boot. _The world is changing, and you can’t see it. I don’t have to fuck anyone if I don’t want to—when I come home, they’ll be available for civilians, too, just you wait._

            But of course they hadn’t been. Of course he’d been discharged, much too early, for reckless behaviour. Endangering his fellow troops. Putting his own desires and personal interests above those of the army. He’d gotten James _killed_ , when he—

            John’s hand clenches around the cord of the blinds. It isn’t his fault—his first therapist, the one they’d given him as he was convalescing from his wound, had told him so. There was no way for him to have known about the mine, the sniper. They’d had intelligence, but something had slipped through, someone had made a mistake. John couldn’t possibly have known.

            But then that doctor had been taken away. When his lethargy hadn’t improved, they’d ordered a complete examination, and found the bite. The bite that was fading, scarring. They knew.

            And then the narrative had changed.

            It was John’s fault, now, that James had died. He’d ruined his commander’s concentration, had been unfocused in his duties. If he’d just been paying a little bit more attention, he’d have noticed the tell-tale signs that something was wrong. His desire to show off to his alpha, to “get some tail”, had resulted in his commander’s death, his own injury, and the injuries of several other soldiers. John was no longer fit for the army.

            And when he’d come home, weak and depressed and still grieving for his alpha, his family had had the nerve to shake their heads and cluck over him like a foolish child who’d climbed too far up a tree and broken a leg as he fell. He should have been expecting this, they’d said. The army is no place to play house, John. You should’ve just stayed home and settled down. Been a nice, quiet doctor somewhere, with a big, strong alpha who would have given you a bunch of lovely children. But who’s going to take you now?

            And John had believed them. He’d _believed_ them, limping around London, going to clinics to see if they’d take an ex-army doctor with plenty of experience—but a broken bond, a limp, and a history of depression. A _single_ doctor, with no plans of finding a mate and no way to pay for the still astronomically expensive suppressants only just starting to be leaked to the public.

            No one had taken him.

            And then they’d had the nerve to suggest he start dating again.

            Harry had been the most vehement about it—probably, John thinks with a bit of spite, because her relationship with Clara had been just about ready to fail at the time. But he hadn’t been interested, had said as much several times. Enough times that his family, apparently, had gone to consult a doctor about him behind his back.

            _Hyposexual desire disorder,_ they’d said. _Easily treatable_. And necessary, too, because John’s health had been steadily declining since he’d come home—he’d been having coughing fits, difficulty walking at times due to pain or weakness in his knees, couldn’t tolerate many kinds of food… it was the pills or therapy, his family had told him.

            John chose neither.

            He’d tried to do research to convince them that he was normal; there were websites out there detailing the lives and experiences of people who didn’t feel the need to be with an alpha or an omega—dozens of forums, hundreds of people, just like him. It was liberating, finally being able to hear that there was nothing wrong with him, that he didn’t need chemicals or hormones to give him a desire he didn’t want in the first place. But his family didn’t care, didn’t read the articles he printed out and left on the dining room table. Instead they went to the doctor again, got a prescription in his name and left it on his bed, in the bathroom, in the kitchen—every time he threw it out, it would reappear somewhere else the next day, in blatant view and disregarding either his emotions or dignity (once Harry had set the bottle pointedly in front of him while one of his few remaining friends, Mike, had been over for a visit. Mike had been understanding, but John never forgave Harry for it).

            In the end, they caught him with his gun.

            It was a miracle they hadn’t found it before—John had hidden it in a shoebox on the top shelf of his closet, buried underneath a mountain of old photos, but what with the frequency they’d been going through his things to place pills or magazines or news articles in among his belongings, he’d expected them to turn it up much earlier.

            Not that he was complaining, of course.

            But they’d found him, hunched over it as he hid on the floor of his closet, muzzle digging bruises into his forehead as he willed himself, over and over again, to pull the trigger.

            He couldn’t. He’d been too afraid at the time, still too hopeful that something might change, that they would stop doing this to him if only they _knew_ how hard it was for him, how much he didn’t want it.

            But no. It had only cemented the deal in their minds, confirmed that he was unable to take care of himself, to make good decisions for his health, and so they’d packed him up and sent him out here in order to learn how to be _normal._ How to roll over and take it, and be grateful that doing so would keep him breathing and not-dead.

            Well, John’s had enough.

            John gathers up the cord for one of the blinds in his hands, looping it around until he’s sure it’s strong enough to not snap when he applies the weight. Then, heart pounding, hands tingling with adrenaline, he places the loop around his head.

            A dull _thud_ sounds from the room next door.

            John pauses, senses on high alert, ears pricked for any further sound. That wasn’t a knock; the nurses always knock multiple times, and the pitch had been wrong anyway. Less of a thin tap and more of a—

            _Thud._

            There it is again. Coming from Sherlock’s room, from the wall that separates their two rooms, to be precise. What is he doing?

            _It doesn’t matter,_ part of him insists. _He’s not your problem anymore, none of this is your problem anymore. Get on with it._ But another, steadily stronger part of him, is feeling a growing sense of alarm. What if Sherlock’s _hurting_ himself? The walls are cinderblock, not plaster; he could do some real damage that way if he tried.

            Carefully, John releases himself from the cords, then strides over to his door and wrenches it open without a thought to the nurses or their schedules.

            In fact, his hand is on Sherlock’s door, ready to turn the knob, before he realises what he’s doing and stops. What if he’s overreacting? There are plenty of other reasons for that noise apart from what he’s thinking: Sherlock could have a guest over (although John admits that isn’t very likely). He could be _masturbating,_ for god’s sake; it hadn’t occurred to John before, since he himself doesn’t do it, but if that’s the case, he doesn’t think Sherlock would appreciate the intrusion.

            But… what if he’s _not?_ John worries his lip between his teeth for a few seconds more, then decides to hell with it and enters.

            At first he can’t even see Sherlock, and he’s brought up short just inside the doorway. Where is he? The bed’s empty, although the sheets have been mussed, so obviously he’s slept in them. Or at least tried, John amends to himself. But the window’s closed and the door to the ensuite is open, so he can’t have left. Then he hears another _thud_ , louder this time, and John takes a few careful steps forward to see Sherlock, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside his bed, forehead pressed against the wall.

            “They’re going to alter me, John,” he moans, without waiting for a question. “Pump me full of drugs and make me touch myself in front of omegas.” His shoulders, so much narrower-looking in his thin pyjama t-shirt, shudder in revulsion. “I can’t do it.”

            “So—what?” John asks, a bit helplessly. “You thought giving yourself a concussion would help?”

            “I wasn’t trying to give myself a concussion.” Sherlock’s voice is flat. “I was trying to build up the courage for a brain-damaging blow.”

            John’s lips press together and his eyebrows crease in sympathy. It’s not that he doesn’t understand—he can smell from here how much the treatment is affecting Sherlock—but the thought of Sherlock doing that to himself, of him beating his head against the wall until that amazing, brilliant brain of his is nothing more than mush, is unbearable. John, now _he_ is expendable. His death is insignificant, won’t mean anything in the grand scheme of things. But Sherlock. He actually stands a chance in hell of getting out of here, and if _he_ dies… He’s important. John knows he is. He can’t let Sherlock do this to himself.

            Unfortunately, he’s taken too long to respond, and Sherlock pulls his head back in preparation for another blow. His eyes clench shut, and before John can properly realise what he’s doing, he’s lunged forward and grabbed the sides of Sherlock’s skull with both hands.

            It’s the first time he’s really touched Sherlock like this; despite their newfound friendship, John tends to avoid physical contact with anyone, and for a fraction of a second he’s struck by how soft Sherlock’s hair is, how fragile his skull feels between his palms.

            How good he smells.

            And then Sherlock’s eyes fly open, he tries to tear himself away from John’s grip, and the moment is lost as John tries to keep him from breaking free and getting back to the wall.

            “No— _Sherlock!_ ” John snaps, involving all limbs now as he wraps one leg around Sherlock’s, shifting an arm to hold Sherlock’s down while he keeps his other hand held protectively over Sherlock’s forehead. “You’re not going to do this to yourself, now _stop it._ Stop _moving,_ damn it!”

            Sherlock’s breathing, at first mostly low grunts of exertion as he fights against John’s hold, soon devolve into quick, panting exhalations of pain, and for the span of a few seconds John worries that he’s going to hyperventilate. The thought quickly passes, however, as Sherlock goes limp beneath him and, with a long, low moan, begins to thump his head weakly against the floor, cushioned by John’s hand.

            “Hey,” John whispers, pulling him closer, “don’t do that. You don’t need to maim yourself, kill yourself, any of that.”

            “Why not?” Sherlock groans, but he desists anyway. “You were going to.”

            The chill goes down John’s spine again. “How did you—”

            “The only way that you would have been that relaxed about your upcoming treatment is if you had known that wouldn’t have to endure it,” Sherlock says tiredly. “I knew you had a plan, but I didn’t know _when._ Then you came in—cord marks on your hands, from gripping them tightly. Nerves. You would have gone through with it if only I had chosen another wall.”

            The hairs on the back of John’s neck prickle, but for an entirely different reason this time. “I could have ignored you.”

            “You could have,” Sherlock allows. “And then you’d have been dead and I’d be well on my way to giving myself blunt force trauma. But that’s not what happened, is it? You decided to _save_ me.”

            “Don’t say that like it doesn’t matter,” John snaps.

            Sherlock sighs. “May I get up?”

            “No promises on putting you back in a headlock if you try that shit again.” But John does pull back, letting Sherlock go so the both of them can sit upright and, in Sherlock’s case, dab at his abraded forehead with tissues from his bedside table.

            “So.” John licks his lips uncertainly. “What made you—I mean, you didn’t know what I was doing until you saw my hands, so you weren’t—”

            “They’re upping my medication,” Sherlock says with another sigh. “Since I don’t seem to have _reacted_ well enough to this dosage, they’re going to increase it by a half, see if that makes a difference.” His hands tighten into fists momentarily, then release. “I’m struggling as it is, John. Every _single second_ is a battle with biology, trying to convince myself that what I’m smelling isn’t important, that I don’t want to touch anyone, that these urges are _surmountable_.” Sherlock pulls his knees up to his chest, gripping at his hair with both hands. “Every time I pass by an omega, I’m afraid that that’ll be the time I lose control and take them. I don’t want to do it, John.”

            “You haven’t done it to me,” John reminds him softly.

            “Because I know you’d kill me if I tried.” There’s a bit of weak humour injected into Sherlock’s tone, trying to lighten the mood, but it’s lost on John as an idea slowly dawns on him.

            It’s stupid. It’s completely, utterly idiotic, and more than likely to get them both in enormous amounts of trouble if they’re found out, but—

            “What?” Sherlock’s caught on, suddenly curious. “What is it?”

            “What if you—” John starts. Stops, breathes, tries again. “What if, you and I. _Pretended_. That you were going to… help with my heat.” The last bit comes out in a rush and Sherlock blinks, squinting at him.

            “That I what?”

            “Look,” John says, building speed, “it might work. If you tell them that you’ve found an omega that you’re interested in—me—then you’ll have done what they wanted. And my heat isn’t for another month and half, about. They won’t keep you in rut that long if you promise that you’ll breed me. They’ll take you off the meds, and probably get off my back as well.”

            “But then what happens when it actually comes time for your heat?” Sherlock demands. “You’re not seriously asking me to…”

            “We’ll deal with that when we get there,” John says sharply. “Either way, it buys us some time. For me to finally die in peace, and for you to get a chance to figure out another strategy for getting out of here. What’ve we got to lose?”

            Sherlock looks at him for a long moment, thinking, calculating. Then, carefully, he holds out his right hand.

            “Deal.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! Sorry it's been so long, but here's the next chapter! My daily word output has been way down these past ten days or so, I'm sorry about that. Hopefully that'll pick up soon. Also: things are gonna get pretty dub-con-y from here on out. Be on the lookout if that's something that bothers you.
> 
> Hope you guys like the chapter!

            “I want Sherlock taken off of his meds.”

            Ella looks up at him from where she’s filling out paperwork at her desk. “John.” She gestures towards a chair. “Please, come in.”

            “I mean it,” John says, but comes in and sits down anyway. His leg’s aching more than usual today. “I want you to talk to his doctor and tell him that Sherlock needs to go off the hormones.”

            “Disregarding the fact that Sherlock is Doctor Frankland’s patient and not mine,” Ella says pleasantly, “the hormones are an integral part of his treatment, as they are of yours. There are no current plans to remove them from either of your treatment regimens.”

            John’s fists clench at his sides. _Sherlock,_ he tells himself steadily. _It’s for Sherlock. You can do this._

            “We’re… mating,” he grits out. Ella’s eyes widen.

            “Not yet,” John amends. “We haven’t done it… yet. But we’re going to. When I have my…” He bites the inside of his lip harshly. “Heat.”

            “Oh, John, that’s wonderful,” Ella congratulates him. “I’m very happy for you both. But…” she falters. “I’m not quite sure what this has to do with taking Sherlock off his medication.”

            “I won’t do it if he’s on them.” John’s heart pounds as he says it; he’s taking a big risk with this ultimatum. Since Sherlock is more or less in rut already, there’s every chance that they could just turn it back on him and induce his heat now. After all, he could still commit suicide in the next six weeks, and they wouldn’t want to have to admit to his family that they could have done something to prevent it but hadn’t. “If I’m going to have to sleep with an alpha, I don’t want to do it while he’s… artificially interested,” he insists. “That’s not fair to Sherlock, and it’s not fair to me. I want us to do it—” he grimaces at the phrasing—“naturally.”

            Ella folds her hands in front of her mouth in a thinking pose eerily similar to Sherlock’s and is silent for several seconds.

            “I’ll discuss it with Doctor Frankland,” she says at last. “If he decides that it’s the best course of action for Sherlock, then we might let you go ahead with it. But it’s his decision, John, and I expect you to accept whatever he tells you. Do you understand?”

            “Of course.” John nods. He can feel his pulse twitching in his neck—he hadn’t actually expected her to agree. “Is—is that everything?”

            “For now, yes.” Ella watches him quietly as John struggles back to his feet. “I’m very pleased that you’ve made this decision, John. It’s very… timely of you.”

            John looks at her. Ella doesn’t say anything else, however, merely smiles at him and gestures calmly towards the door.

            “I’ll see you this evening for our usual therapy session, John. Have a nice day.”

 -

            Sherlock’s door is still closed when John returns to his room. He’d knocked, earlier, before going to see Ella, but Sherlock hadn’t responded and eventually John had decided to just go on his own. Now, though, the majority of the patient body is up and about, and John needs to talk to him. Too bad if he’s still asleep.

            “Sherlock?” John raps at the door. “I’m back.”

            “Go away.”

            Well. Definitely not asleep, then. John shifts to his other leg. “Why?”

            “I’m _indisposed_. Come back later.”

            Indisposed. John mouths the word, thinking it over. Then it occurs to him and he makes a face, stumbling back from the door. “Augh, did you have to?”

            “You asked.” There’s a pause, and then a loud sigh. “Well, it’s gone, now. What is it?”

            For a moment John debates not telling him. Then—“Ella said we could do it.”

            There’s a fumbling sort of crash from inside, and then John can hear Sherlock press up against the other side of the door. “You’re not serious.”

            “Well…” John hesitates. “No, not exactly. She did say she’d ask your doctor about it, though.”

            Sherlock sighs. “John, those are not at all the same thing. Come to me to gloat once we’ve actually _achieved_ something.”

            “Hey,” John objects, indignant, “at least I asked her, rather than taking a lie-in to have a wank. And I _did_ get her to agree to do something, anyway. She could have just told me she was going to jumpstart my heat, you know.”

            Sherlock’s silent for a moment. “But that would kill you.”

            “Not if you slept with me, it wouldn’t.” That’s met with more silence, and John clenches his jaw as he clears his throat. “Never mind. Do you… do you think your doctor would go in for it?”

            Sherlock sighs noisily. “I don’t know, he seems to be rather enjoying holding my libido in his large, overly-chapped hands. Of course, he might also enjoy knowing that I’ve capitulated at last, so either outcome is possible.”

            “That’s not really reassuring.” John glances up and down the hallway to make sure there are no nurses or other patients about, then leans forward and whispers, “Can I come in?”

            “Inadvisable,” Sherlock replies quickly. “I’m… in a state, as you can probably well imagine, and having you around would be extremely unhelpful.”

            “Charming,” John says flatly. “Look, we need to plan, though. If she talks to your doctor today, and they decide _no_ , we need to figure out what we’re doing. If we’re going to try and convince them, or if we’ll just… find another way around it.”

            “There is no _other way around it_ ,” Sherlock says. “My medicine is _injectable_ , unlike yours, and therefore much more difficult to avoid.”

            “That’s… not really what I meant.” John looks around again. Still nobody. “What about your brother? Couldn’t you ask him to do something, if they don’t say yes?”

            There’s a tense silence for several moments. Then the doorknob clicks, the door swings open, and John is greeted by the sight of a very rumpled Sherlock, clad in baggy pyjama pants and a loose grey t-shirt that’s starting to slide off of one shoulder, exposing the spot where his scent gland would be.

            “Stop staring,” Sherlock snaps, “and get in.”

            Warmth floods John’s cheeks but he drags his eyes up from Sherlock’s neck and looks at his face instead as he makes his way into the room. Sherlock all but slams the door behind him, then proceeds to stomp over to the window where he leans petulantly against the sill.

            “ _Mycroft_ ,” he begins in an acid tone, “has been kind enough to inform me that he will _not_ be meddling in any worthwhile capacity with my medication. I’d thought the same as you, at first, that the doctors would be unlikely to accept our proposal without any pressure from above, but when I brought it up he was quick to remind me that I am here for _treatment_ , and therefore he expects me to acquiesce to whatever the doctors think is best.” A shudder passes through him then and he clenches his eyes shut, gritting his teeth against a wave of what John assumes is desire.

            “God…” Sherlock’s voice is tight. “Do you absolutely have to be in here?”

            “Sorry, sorry.” John winces and backs up a few paces. “Just—what are we going to do, then, if they say no?”

            “ _Hell_ , what do I know?” Sherlock exclaims, bringing up his hands to dig the heels of his palms against his eyes. “ _Have sex_ , to get this damn need for _heat_ out of me before—” He stops. “Before I…” His fingertips curl in to scrape against his forehead, and John can see his chest slowly expand, then fall.

            “I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock says. His voice is forcibly light, calm. “I didn’t mean to push that on you.”

            “It’s all right,” John says. He takes another step backwards towards the door. “Shall I just come get you, then, if they call for us?”

            “That would be marvellous.” Sherlock doesn’t move, however, and so after a moment of hesitation, John turns around and leaves the room, closing the door gently behind him. There’s still no one in the hallway, and John pauses, looking first in one direction, then the other. He purses his lips, and then, taking hold of his sore leg, he slides gingerly down the wall and settles in to wait, left shoulder just brushing the wood of Sherlock’s door.

 -

            …Which is where they find him, later, when they come for him.

            John is dozing by that point, head bent at a slight angle against the wall. Any noises that might have come from Sherlock’s room are mostly muffled through the wood, so he’s not really eavesdropping, per se, just… watching out. But the sound of footsteps jar him awake and he straightens up to see Ella and a man he presumes to be Sherlock’s doctor walking down the hall towards him.

            “John?” Ella asks once she’s close enough to talk. “Is everything all right?”

            “What? Yeah, everything’s fine.” Suddenly uncomfortable, John braces his hands against the floor and starts the laborious process of standing up. “Do you need Sherlock?”

            “Is he in?”

            “As far as I know.” John waves away Dr Frankland’s hand and manages, at last, to get himself fully upright. “Can knock if you like, but he’s probably in a mood. All but kicked me out earlier.”

            “Is that so?” Ella gives John a curious look as she steps around him to knock on the door. “Mr Holmes, are you awake?”

            “Bugger off.”

            Ella shoots John another, unimpressed, look, then raps again. “Mr Holmes, it’s Doctor Thompson and Doctor Frankland. We’d like to come in, if you could spare a minute.”

            Sherlock groans in a way reminiscent of a teenager flattening a pillow over his head. “Oh, if you _must._ ” There’s the sound of creaking bedsprings, and then petulant bare feet stomp over to the door which is thrown open moments later to reveal a Sherlock that looks no less grumpy than the one John encountered an hour or so before.

            “Yes?” he demands. “What is it?”

            “John came to me with a rather interesting proposal earlier,” Ella tells him. “Would you happen to know anything about it?”

            Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Yes, I’ve decided that I’ll be the one sleeping with him once his estrus arrives. We’ll be having messy, marathon, animalistic sex for days on end, barely able to leave this room, much less feed or bathe ourselves, much to the displeasure of everyone around us. Is that acceptable?”

            “Almost.” Ella gestures into the room. “May we come in?”

            Sherlock’s lip curls, but after a few tense seconds he takes a step backwards and motions for them to enter. Ella and Frankland do so without much preamble, but John waits for Sherlock to nod at him before he follows.

            “It’s just a bit of an abrupt about-face from you, that’s all,” Frankland remarks once the door is closed. “Just a few days ago you were telling me, rather colourfully might I add, what you thought of this program and how you didn’t intend to comply with any of our directives. Now you’ve decided to take an omega? The omega that’s had the most difficult track record of any patient we’ve had here? It’s surprising, is all.”

            John glances at Sherlock but his gaze is not returned.

            “We’ve discussed the idea at length,” Sherlock says calmly. “John is comfortable with it, as am I, and I at least plan to follow through. What more is there for us to do?”

            Frankland and Ella exchange glances.

            “Oh, not terribly much,” Frankland says. “Doctor Thompson just has a few stipulations she’d like you to agree to, and then that’ll be that.” He looks at her, and John can feel a spasm working its way through his left hand. He clenches it and then clasps it tightly behind his back.

            “Yes, there are a few concerns I have, especially regarding Sherlock’s medication,” Ella begins. “Doctor Frankland has told me that their effects are performing an integral function in Sherlock’s treatment, namely in the area of boosting desire. Our nurses and blood tests have confirmed that the medication is working as intended. However, as you’ve told me, John, you don’t want to mate with Sherlock under its influence.”

            “Won’t,” John clarifies. “Not just don’t want to, I won’t do it if he’s on the drugs.”

            “I see.” Ella studies him for a moment, expression passive. “If that’s going to be the case, then I’m going to need some things from you two.” Her gaze shifts to Sherlock. “As I hope you understand, our job here is to get you well. Getting you well requires, as we’ve told you many times, contact with an Alpha or an Omega. If we remove the medication from your treatment regimens, we expect you to follow through and provide each other with that contact. Progress towards that end will be monitored by our staff, our nurses, and ourselves. If we continue to see a decline on John’s part, or the start of a decline on your part, Sherlock, we will resume traditional treatment and induce John’s estrus.”

            Ice fills John’s veins. They can’t—that was the whole point of them _doing_ this, so that he wouldn’thave to—he turns his head to look pleadingly at Sherlock, heart pounding, but still Sherlock doesn’t look in his direction. His eyes have gone cold, his mouth thin.

            “I understand,” he says. “John?”

            “What?” John swallows, looks at Ella and Frankland who are watching him expectantly. His palms are slick, his chest tight.

            “Do you agree?” Sherlock prompts him.

            He can’t. He can’t agree to do this, can’t commit himself to being with Sherlock, touching him, _being touched_ in that way. His skin crawls at the thought of it, of Sherlock’s tongue tracing over his skin, pressing against his mouth, pressing against him _there_ when he’s hot and wet and wanting and so, so _vulnerable…_

            “John.”

            He looks at Sherlock again, his breath escaping from him in shallow pants. (It won’t even just be Sherlock touching him, either; they’ll be checking to make sure that they’ve touched, kissed, bitten, _licked_ each other, will check their hormone levels and John’s organ functioning to see if there’s been any effect; they won’t be able to hide it, won’t be able to keep this private from judging, prying eyes, and what if they think Sherlock isn’t good enough, what if they _take him away—_ )

            “John.” Sherlock’s gaze steadies him. “Do you agree?”

            He doesn’t have a choice. It’s this or the drugs, this or therapy, this or a strange alpha fucking him straight. The way things stand, Sherlock may be his best chance.

            That doesn’t mean it feels any less like signing his own death warrant when he nods, takes a deep breath, and sighs to his doctors.

            “I agree.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys. As always, I apologize for the lateness of the chapter. I wanted to get another scene in here, or at least make this one a bit longer, but school has come in to bite me on the butt and I figured I'd cut it off here and give you something to read for November. We're almost at finals and I have two essays to write plus a book to read and three languages to study for; therefore I don't know how much time I'll have for writing until the semester's over. Still, I'll try to keep plugging away at it, and in the meantime, I hope you enjoy the chapter.

           “You’re joking.”

            They’re in Sherlock’s room, perched awkwardly on opposite sides of his bed as they talk. It’s been several hours and Ella and Frankland are long gone, off to make adjustments to charts and treatment plans and the like, and probably to notify their families of the new development as well. John had reluctantly agreed to come back at Sherlock’s request in order to start planning their next moves, but in what John is quickly beginning to suspect is his custom, Sherlock has decided to dive right off into the deep end.

            “What? It’s a perfectly logical first step.”

            “Logical? In case you haven’t noticed,” John snaps, “you’re still basically in rut. Why do you think I’d let you anywhere near my neck?”

            “We have to make this look _compelling,_ John,” Sherlock tells him, as if John doesn’t already know that. “You and I have already consented to mate, in their minds. An alpha and omega who plan on becoming a bonded pair don’t _wait_ once they’ve decided to do so; their hormones are too powerful for that.”

            “What about making me look like I’m going to stick to my word?” John demands. “I _told_ them that I wasn’t going to have sex with you unless you were off the medication! If they see us tomorrow and your teeth have already been all over my neck, what are they going to think?”

            “That you’re following orders and no longer need to be threatened,” Sherlock says calmly. “You’re not going to be made into a liar, John—we’re not going to have sex. But scenting is a primary mode of expressing affection for new couples, and draining your glands will relieve some of the pain. Your shoulders have been hurting you, haven’t they?”

            It’s a stupid question. John’s shoulders have been stiff and tense for months now, a glaring enough sign for people who _aren’t_ Sherlock to notice. Still, John rolls his shoulders self-consciously and tries to resist the urge to scratch.

            “Can fix that, can you?” he asks, dubious. Sherlock merely looks at him.

            “I believe I can.”

            They stare at each other, unblinking, for several seconds. Sherlock’s expression doesn’t shift from guileless honesty, however, and eventually John sighs in agitated resignation.

            “Fine,” he says at last. “Fine. But if I catch you trying anything—and I mean _anything,_ Sherlock _—_ we’re done. You got that?”

            Sherlock shrugs, unintimidated. “Turn around.”

            John bristles at first at his tone, but when Sherlock doesn’t back down he sighs again, harshly, and shifts to present Sherlock with a better view of his back.

            He’s uncomfortable already. Presenting himself to an alpha like this, making himself vulnerable—Sherlock could easily take advantage of him this way, could at any second lose control or simply decide on a whim that yes, he’d rather like to bite John, actually, and then have his teeth sunk in before John could protest or even know what was happening. They’d be bonded in minutes, tied together until death, with dozens of chemicals surging through John’s veins and telling him that everything he’d ever thought about himself was a lie, that yes, he’d love to roll over and let Sherlock take him, prove his dominance as an alpha and John’s new mate.

            He thinks he’s going to be sick.

            “Stop thinking,” Sherlock instructs him. “It’s distracting.”

            John opens his mouth, about to tell Sherlock just how little he cares right now about being _distracting_ , but then Sherlock’s fingers make contact with his skin and his mouth snaps shut again, lips pressing together so hard he’s sure they’re white.

            It’s not that it hurts, exactly. (The skin _is_ tender, there’s no lying about that, but John’s obviously had worse so he won’t complain.) No, the problem is that it’s familiar: alpha fingers, gentle and cautious, exploring his skin as if it’s something to be cherished, treasured; a delicate fabric or a piece of tissue paper about to rip.

            John’s hands clench into fists.

            _Callused fingers, warm and sure, press carefully against his shoulder blades._

_“Is this all right? I’m not hurting you?”_

_“No, that’s fine.” John twists to look up at James, a wistful half-smile on his face. “Can’t say it feels nice either, though.”_

_James’ expression falls. “Do you want me to stop? We don’t have to do this if you don’t want.”_

_“Mm, no, it’s all right.” John lies back down and shrugs out his shoulders. “I know you like it, and I don’t mind. It’s fine.”_

            “-raining them will look good,” Sherlock‘s voice, deep and oblivious, jars John out of his thoughts and back into the present. “They’ll think that we’ve been scenting, perhaps even biting if we’re lucky. We’ll have to do it more than once, obviously, but—oh.” His fingers touch upon something hard, and John does his best not to wince as a twinge of pain radiates out from his gland.

            “‘Oh’ what?” he demands when Sherlock doesn’t continue right away. “What’s the matter?”

            “This may be a bit uncomfortable,” Sherlock warns him. He doesn’t elaborate, however, and before John can open his mouth to ask what he means, Sherlock has set his fingers and pressed down on one of the swollen glands.

            The pain is intense and immediate, and John bites back a curse as he works his hands in and out of fists, trying to stifle the urge to turn around and swing at Sherlock. It’s as if something’s popped inside of him, and the effort to just keep breathing through the pain takes up so much of his attention that he almost doesn’t notice when Sherlock lowers his head to press his nose firmly against John’s neck.

            An irrational ‘no’ immediately rises in John’s throat— _no, don’t touch me, get off of me—_ but he bites it back, ducking his head and forcing himself to keep breathing deeply and steadily. Just scenting, Sherlock had said. They’re just popping his glands, relieving some pressure. Even if Sherlock’s hands around his shoulders are tightening their grip, that doesn’t have to mean anything. They’ll be done soon enough and then John can go, and then they can never talk about this again.

            Except.

            Sherlock’s breaths are growing deeper, his inhales powerful and his exhales short bursts of air against John’s skin. His nose nudges the steadily dampening shirt collar aside, and then John stifles a jerk as the sensation shifts; suddenly, suddenly, there’s the terrifyingly wet warmth of a tongue pressing against his neck. Suddenly, suddenly, John’s world comes shuddering to a halt.

            _No._

            His breath catches in his throat.

_Alpha. Teeth. Danger._

            He won’t let Sherlock do it, won’t let him bite him, won’t let him claim him.

            _Alpha. Danger. NO._

            “ _Get off_ ,” he snaps, thrusting his shoulder backwards towards Sherlock’s face. (He doesn’t particularly care if he actually makes contact or not; if he does, all the better, but all he really wants is to get Sherlock’s face as far away from his neck as possible.) “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

            Sherlock jerks backward at the motion, obviously startled but still somehow managing to catch John’s shoulder with ease. John growls and twists around, jerking his shoulder again to tear it out of Sherlock’s grip. “I said, _get off,_ Sherlock.”

            “John?” Sherlock blinks at him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What’s the matter?”

            “What’s the _matter?_ ” John stares at Sherlock as if he’s lost his mind. “You were _licking me_ , that’s what’s the matter! Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

            Sherlock’s gaze flicks down to John’s shoulder, taking in the damp fabric and pink skin with an attentive eye. He pauses for a moment, shoulders rising and falling slowly with his breath, and for the span of a few seconds John thinks, absurdly, that he’s going to apologise for what he’s done. But then he looks closer, sees Sherlock’s pupils dilated, and then, almost imperceptibly, his nostrils flare and John is done.

            “All right.” John clenches his fist one last time, then shoves himself up and off of the bed and away from Sherlock. “That’s it. We’re done here.”

            “John?” Sherlock makes as if to follow him, but John spins around and bares his teeth with a growl.

            “ _Don’t_ , Sherlock.” At least he stops, John thinks with a small amount of satisfaction, but the fact that he’d had to order it in the first place raises his ire again. “This was a terrible idea. You’re still drugged up to your eyeballs in hormones. How could you possibly have thought you could control yourself?”

            “I can!” Sherlock argues. “I didn’t bite you, did I?”

            “Well done.” John’s tone is heavy with sarcasm. “And would you have managed to do that if I hadn’t tried to clock you in the face?”

            Sherlock’s cheek twitches but he doesn’t reply. John waits a moment longer, then sighs, shaking his head in disgust.

            “Okay,” he says. “This is what we’re going to do. You’re going to sit in here and stop thinking with your dick—take a cold shower if you have to, I don’t much care—and I’m going to go back to my room and think about if this mad plan is actually going to work if I can’t even trust you to keep your word for five fucking minutes of touching me. Does that sound all right to you?”

            It’s a bit of a rhetorical question, but John is appeased, if only slightly, when Sherlock dips his head and mutters, “yes, John,” in a sullen, angry tone.

            “Good.” John keeps his gaze fixed on Sherlock for a few more seconds, then turns and storms out of the room before he can storm up to Sherlock instead and demand he finish the job on the other side of his neck.

 

* * *

 

_“Is this all right?” James’ hand slides gently over John’s pectorals, exploring the skin slowly with long, smooth strokes as he asks his ever present questions. “I’m not hurting you?”_

_“No.” John keeps himself still, waiting for his muscles to relax and welcome the touch of his—an alpha, he reminds himself, James isn’t his yet—but after ten seconds the sick feeling in his gut has not abated and he shivers, curling in on himself. “Maybe… maybe not my chest.”_

_James’ hand immediately retreats to John’s shoulder and squeezes twice in reassurance. “I’m sorry.”_

_“No, God, I’m sorry, I—” John grits his teeth, resisting the urge to pull out of the embrace. “I didn’t think it’d be this hard.”_

_“We have time.” James idly brushes at John’s scent glands, two hard bumps at the base of his neck. “You said you’ve never had anyone bite you?”_

_John wants to squirm away from that touch as well, but sets his jaw instead and lets it happen. He likes James—there’s no reason why he shouldn’t like his touch._

_“No,” he says. “I… never wanted to, before. In uni.”_

_“What about before uni?” James asks. He presses the tip of his nose against John’s shoulder and breathes; due to the suppressants, John knows the scent is dulled, but James seems to like it well enough. “Not while you were in school?”_

_John shrugs helplessly. “I was never interested. While everybody else was out sniffing for an alpha, I just wanted to study, have a good match, get all sweaty, you know. The usual stuff.”_

_“Hm.” James noses at his glands again. “Is that why they’re so swollen? Because no one’s bitten you? I could help, if you like.”_

_A spark of electricity shoots down John’s spine at the words, despite the curl of fear they cause in his stomach._

_“Not—not now,” he says. “Maybe… later, yeah? But right now, can we just…?”_

_“Of course.” James leaves his neck be and settles in for sleep, laying his right arm across John’s in a loose embrace._

 

            John tightens his fingers in his hair, face pressed close against his knees as he curls up on top of his bed, and breathes.


End file.
